The Final Meal

I felt a cold wind spiralling around my body whilst also being attacked by rapid drops of the stabbing rain as they pierce my soft skin. Synchronised beads of condensation began to trickle down from the house windows. It’s dark, and as I walk through the cold, the shape of dark elm trees, silhouetted in the backdrop create a haunting atmosphere. Their mighty shadows obscure the cobbled pathway leading to the house of Vince’s parents. The house is bleak, with rotting wooden planks peeking out in each direction. Leading up the porch, there is an old wooden staircase left with pale, frayed carpet laid down on the steps which have lost most of its colour due to the outside exposure in the sun and rain for so long.

I walk up with Vince towards the house. He seems nervous, and sweat is beginning to form around his brow. His face is pale and chilled from the breeze, yet his lips don’t tremble from the cold. He is afraid to meet his grandparents again, and see what they might’ve become after all these years. How isolation in the family may have either destroyed them or brought them uncomfortably close together. We walk up to the door, and Vince raises his fist, then turns to me with a look of fear that is also hopeful for the future. Three knocks, then the door slides open.

“H…Hello? It’s Vince, is anyone home…”

There was no answer. The inside is icily quiet. There is an old staircase to the left side which over the years has barely retained its figure. Vince proceeds up the stairs with no explanation, leaving me on this first level. I head right into the living room, and instantly there is the strong scent of blood and mould. There is an old, patchy green sofa with a large, old-fashioned brown TV with a flickering blue light that comes from the screen. No image, no sound. I continue to roam this room, inspecting the couch, and the only two items which catch the eye instantly are the blood-stained scissors, matched with a hand mirror. There is an esoteric aura surrounding the house. I proceed to back off, but my path is obscured by this frail older man who greets me from inside his home.

“Did you get what I asked of you? Did you bring the whiskey?”

I scream at the sudden words until I see his face, and my voice is abruptly silenced by fear.

“You said you would stay with me, but you left. You abandoned me, left me in this house. They could’ve killed me you know. See what they do when you’re not around! See what happens!”

At this moment, he removes his cap. His head is shaved to a messy buzz cut, and there are various patches of blood which at this moment has dried into his remaining hair. His skin is frail and looks like it has been sucked up against his bone. His eyes are like piercing rays of fire which gratingly burn through my flesh. He starts to go crazy as if all memory of Vince has escaped his mind over these six years. There is this constant reference to ‘outside’ and ‘you’re not allowed outside or then you’ll know too much! You can’t know too much!’. The old man doesn’t remember Vince, and he is constantly looking at me with those eyes…. Insulting my home town…. Insulting my relationship. There is a painstaking chill which rides up my spine every time he looks at me with those burning eyes. There is no longer disappointment towards his insults at me, but now there is pure terror and fear.

“Vince, I’m fucking terrified… please, let’s get outta here.”

Vince turns back with a stain in his eye and now I no longer feel a warmth in his presence. In his desperation to reconcile the past, he has bruised me with indifference.

I leave the scene trying to find my way around this house and discover what is truly going on. The walls of this house are rough, with odd patterns and unfamiliar textures. There is a constant, and irritating breeze mixed with a strange and intense humidity, enchanting my body as I pace through these wooden bound halls. Even though I am in the presence of other people, in this house I get a disturbing feeling of being completely and utterly alone. Pacing the kitchen, I can hear the rushing sounds of tap water pooling the sink, and I watch as trickles of water beads fall onto the wood right beneath the sink. There is a small case of mould which has begun to foster in this dark, and damp environment. Wandering around the room, there is the omnipresent scent of raw meat and burnt-out candles. The dining table cloth has a crust of red stains which I could only safely assume to be due to large consumption of red meats, or at least I hope. They seem crude in their means of slaughter. As if the word ‘humane’ holds no value to these people. Walking into the pantry I stare in horror as a stranger, cracks open the ribs of one of the hanging pigs. I watch, as the sternum gives way, snapping open whilst its organs begin pouring out of its chest, splattering through the wooden flooring. I watch as drowned maggots and elements of clay begin cascading out the internal mixture and I simply can’t take any more. It seems clear to me now that by the end of tonight I’ll either be free from this home and the deranged family, or I’ll become the next meal they take advantage of.

I instantly run for my retreat at the nearest door I find. Through these claustrophobic walls, I see the faces of the family casting out enchantments and random assortments of words which make no sense. I hear repeatedly whilst I run towards the back door; “repent thy crippled sinners”. “Destroy thy simulacrum”.

“Repent”

“Repent”

“Repent”

Then there is a break in the door, and I trip over the door frame and plunge into the mud. Outside again, in the cold, the mud provides a small coating of warmth whilst I begin to count the raindrops that fall on my head.

“1, 2, 3…”

The moon now illuminates my view, exposing a small field of crops and wheat. That’s when I start to see the image. The haunting silhouette of a mangled child, standing over my paralyzed body. It’s eyes, whilst they radiate palpable energy, have been gouged out of its sockets, with just the loose eyelids remaining. This creature stares me down, and my body is enraptured by it. There is a voice inside it which speaks to my soul, and inside I hear the deafening cries of a hundred lives which caused this torment upon the child. It speaks out to me to continue the life it was robbed of.

“Garrotter, Jury, and Judge”.

The rotting flesh grips my arm tighter, screaming these words repeatedly. The rain, now feeling like acid, is pouring down on me, soaking my clothes, and I can feel myself begin to fall deeper into the mud as if his creature is pushing me down as it screams. I can feel myself growing weaker through its screams, and as it pushes me through the mud I scream. I feel it drowning every orifice in my body, clogging my veins with its necrotic energy until suddenly it stops. My eyes are peeled back to the tipping. My body, bloated and expanded with dark, negative energy. Now I can see it. Now I can feel the pulsating beat of the buried child within me.

“Garrotter, Jury, and Judge”.

My body drags itself inside, and I head to the kitchen grasping the first instrument of tender appeal I see. Now is the perfect time for a banquet for the old man. After all, I am the esteemed guest, so therefore, it is my obligation to prepare the meal for the man who greeted me into insanity. Preparations begin for the meal, and after five long minutes of some screaming and disciplinary actions, I can already taste the ingredients all coming together. If only the rest of the family could enjoy the treat they have created of themselves. I’m sure Dodge will enjoy it very much.

The house has gone quiet now, and the old man Dodge rests tenderly on his chair wallowing in his own solitude. I spend the next few hours dressing the table to the highest pedigree, as I’d hate to disappoint my own flesh and blood.

The table is embellished with a thick, white table cloth which drapes down to the floor, and small lanterns resting in the middle of the table and scattered around the room. The windows remain open so that our decorated guest can be welcomed if he so chooses to join us for the meal. Around the chairs of the table are five silver-plated dishes with a lid on top to conceal the surprise. Seated before each plate are our five esteemed guests. The family members of the host, sitting diligently with their faces meticulously wrapped in bandages. The blood seeps through the front, staining their masks of mendacity. I call out to Dodge, asking him to arrive at the table for one last family dinner.

“Preparations are finished, Dodge. Time for the first course!”

I drag his chair over to the dining room where preparations have been made. His arms and chest have been restrained to the chair, and clamps placed around his head forcing his mouth and eyes to remain wide open. Upon viewing the meal his face caves in on itself and his hands tighten their grip. Latching onto dear life.

“Where is he?!? My flesh and blood? She... She knows our secret. Vincent is… is that you? Where’s my bottle?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

“What have I done? I’ve simply dressed them for the party! Or rather, undressed them. Taken off the clothes that have been invisible to everyone but you, my king. Exposed them. Shown them their true faces in this world of repressed identity and secrecy. Just slice, pull, chill, and serve. A thirty-minute recipe.”

With that, I remove the lids off each plate showing the true beauty of work to Dodge, and thus, presented before him are the carved faces of his family and the reverend served on a plate of ice to preserve the beauty.

“Do you like it? I made it with lots of love.”

Whilst beautiful, it is still incomplete and there is one last face missing from the pile. I reach over and slide a final plate over in front of Dodge, then proceed to grab the last clean knife from the sink. The cold steel rubs against his frail face, as tears begin to trickle along his cheek. Glaring out into the window I gaze one last look at it. The silhouetted child. Its mangled corpse climbs through the window seal. The sound of breaking bone can be heard with every movement as it drags its feeble body along the splintered wooden floors, inching itself nearer to Dodge. Every moan released is a step closer to the father who left their child. Who drowned it like the runt of a litter. No struggle. No noise. Just life leaving its helpless body. The child now crawls up onto Dodge's lap, now shaking in agony with each passing second.

I press my face up against Dodge’s. The cold steel scraping along the outline of his face. That pretty face which spoils his reflection. His lips begin to tremble, and eyes dampen as blood begins pouring down over his face. I watch his chest rise and fall rapidly until the pace slows, and soon subsides. His final sights are the transformation of the world around him, as warmth leaves his body, and everything becomes a horrific painting of red.

“Eat well my friend… it’s best while still tender…”