Mint Green Tea Cup

Chattering is heard in the distance and one of the women licks her lips, seemingly hungry after all the socialising she's done. Nearby, a woman sits immobile in the parlour. Her hand rests upon the handle of a delicate mint coloured tea cup. Her eyes, lifeless and unfocused, do not make contact with those of the other women gathered around the room. She drools ever so slightly and her chest occasionally rises, the only sign she has the faintest flicker of life remaining in her body. There is no tea in her cup. No, it is her brain which has soaked up the boiling water, through a hole, dainty as can be, pierced right in the middle of her skull. The lobotomy is barely visible, as her hair is piled upon her head in the most lavish of manners. If not for her drooling and incapability to react to stimulus, one might even think the woman was just tired or dazed, as she was also dressed in the most elegant finery imaginable. Her neck and arms, adorned with jewels, sparkled in the light of the parlour. As the woman keeps her gaze on the nothingness she seems to be staring at, one of the surrounding women, a much older madam, abruptly clears her throat and gestures for the mingling women around to take a seat. None pay any attention to the woman with the mint coloured tea cup. No one, however, sits at her table either. Instead, they whisper to each other in hushed tones, regarding the unmoving woman in the center of the room (as the tables positioned in the parlour were disposed so as to form a circle with one table in the middle) in an almost reverent way. Or maybe the gaze the women cast upon her may be more comparable to a hungry one. But hunger for what?

The older madam speaks whilst gesturing and all the chattering dies down. The woman gestures wide, so wide in fact, she breaks a window, cutting her hand in the process. As if the wound was of no importance, the lady continues her speech with no change in her intonation. Her speech is not even strained as blood trickles down her forearm and eventually towards her armpit. As she gesticulates, the stickiness of the thick, red substance does not make her falter for a second. And when she finishes all she has to say and her eyes gleam ferociously, a nervous tingle of reverence can be seen in the eyes of almost every girl present at the parlour that day.

The older woman moves towards the drooling girl in the center and gently places an arm on her shoulder. If not for the lobotomy, this would've probably made the girl flinch. Alas, she remained motionless and empty. The older woman then retrieved something from a previously unseen pocket, hidden under the layers of ruffles of her dress. As an elegant sword was pulled out of the dress, the onlooking women gasped, not out of fear, but in anticipation. The breaths of all seemed suspended in the air as the madam raised her sword. She did not end the misery of the drooling woman by plunging the sword into her heart, oh no. She brought it up, past her head, and cleaved the young woman's skull, so hard she cracked it. The woman holding the mint coloured tea cup did not scream, which was good news, as the women of the parlor did not want the atmosphere to be ruined by such insufferable disturbances. The madam's experience was clear to see, as her blow was decisive and sturdy.

Many of the youngest women in the parlor hurriedly whispered in awe, praising "the Giver" and pointing at the older woman, who was busy hacking the girl with the mint coloured tea cup in half.

The Giver did not take long in accomplishing her task. So quickly she had finished the deed, in fact, that some of the older ladies clapped demurely and the younger ones clapped with less finesse.

Once the woman had been completely cut in half, the process of cutting a piece for each guest began. Plates were piled high with lungs, fatty and sinewy drumsticks of flesh, soft breasts, lady fingers and other such delicacies. The older guests in the parlour received early picks of the part they desired and the younger girls had their turn later. The Giver, however, guest of honour of the party, received the first pick.

She piled the finest parts of the dead woman, the heart, brain and eyeballs, onto her plate. She strode back to the front of the room and sat down with her meal, letting the other girls serve themselves.

As she tucked into the heart, bloody and still beating ever so slightly, she finally noticed the blood trickling down her arm and now onto her food. She looked at it for a moment and then turned her attention back to what she was eating, this meal she'd waited for for quite a while. As she lifted the fork which approached the left ventricle to her lips, her blood mixed with that of the dead girl and the Giver took a bite. As she chewed, her gaze swept across the room and landed on a woman who was not conversing with the rest.

The Giver smiled and savoured more of the heart, the metallic taste of blood rolling on her tongue and down her throat smoothly. She would enjoy this feast and all the next ones as well. Yes, as the women of the parlour chattered while consuming the flesh of the girl with the mint colored tea cup, the Giver licked the blood off her lips, eyes gleaming with insatiable hunger.