At age eleven, I had killed both my parents. There was nothing wrong with them, quite the contrary. Kind creatures they were. I just craved their flesh and the image of their corpses; it just…calmed something inside of me, though I couldn’t tell you what.

After that incident, my whole world shifted. You see, in our world, people like me are seen as ‘special’ of some sort. The more troubled your mind is, the worse.

My fascination with death made me inhuman—others have it far worse.

                    [•=•=•]

After my grandparents gained custody of me, I was quickly enrolled into a private school with others of my kind; the world calls us Disordered. I remember wondering what the guards looked liked underneath their military uniforms and their many straps and buckles filled with weapons. I wondered if they were appetizing.

For the first two weeks there, I wasn’t treated like a new kid, it seemed as though the other Disordered there had territory and clans that made up the school. It was all very confusing to me, so thankfully, I found a girl who was obsessed with it. Social interactions and relationships exactly. She had to know everything to let her mind at rest; though it hardly was.

I was wandering in the lunch room, trying to find a new stop as mine had been taken by some older kids who had a Violent Disordered in their clan who could tear you apart without hesitation, when I noticed her staring at me. She had a pencil in her hand and a notebook in front of her, her lunch tray to the side. There was a boy beside her, large glasses and red-hair, a lighter shade than the girl’s, with pale skin and almost identical to the girl. The first thing I thought was that they looked utterly innocent and tender, then I remembered that they were also Disordered, like me, so that would be cruel if I were to consume them. My second thought was that they were twins, which would be proven to be correct soon.

The girl caught my eye and held it, waving for me to come. I did, of course, my legs were getting a bit tired from all the walking. I placed my tray across from the twins before pulling out a chair and sitting down.

“You’re James Dire, yes?” Her voice was curt, signally that this was not really a question.

“Oh…yes.” I wasn’t really much of a talker then.

Her brother looked up at my voice, cocking his head to the side as he studied me. I still wonder today what he saw in my brown skin and eyes; what he saw in that flesh-hungry gaze. Whatever it was, he smiled, pleased, then went back to picking at his lunch.

“We need you to join us—our clan.” The girl stood up and her long skirt swished. “My name is Katrina Walcott. Age twelve and a Social Disordered.” She pointed to her brother, who’s face was stuffed with bread at that point. The boy jumped at the attention and the finger she pointed at him. His face turned red quickly and he soon put his face into the table. “And that,” she said this part with a exasperated sigh, “is my brother Karl, age twelve and also a Social Disordered.”

She sat down then picked up her own bread. “Well, we do need you to join us, but your Disorder will have to be written down. I never got a chance to hear a teacher slip it out.” Karl lifted his head slightly to watch my reaction as his sister was doing, but when he saw me staring intensely at him, he squeaked and put his head back to the table.

“Uh…well….” I fiddled with my fingers a bit, licking my dry lips. “I may be a Eating Disordered or—or a Craving? No, that can’t be right because I also like keeping them and looking at them—“

“Looking at what?” Katrina interrupted. “That would help to classify.”

“Dead bodies.” I answered quickly.

Katrina paused in her eating. Karl peeked up again, eyes wide. I was also aware that the talking around us had stopped. Sweat was forming on my back, a truly uncomfortable sensation. Was I even outcasted in a place of outcasts themselves?

But then Katrina resumed her eating and the conversation began around us again. Karl was still looking at me curiously; I noticed his eyes were the brightest color of sage.

“Well then, you have two—you’re a Dual Disordered,” Katrina said this with interest in her eyes.

“A-A Dual Disordered?” Really? I didn’t know something like that was a thing.

“Yes. Let me give you a history lssson, James, as you clearly need one.” I tried not to feel offended by her statement. “After the First Humans wiped the earth of the rest of humanity, they wanted the next generation to roam to be different; pure.

“So they monitored birth, raising the pure and killing the rest. This was easy at first, but then the birthing went out of their control as more and more humans reproduced. They then resorted to propaganda—if you see an Unpure, or a Disordered as we are called today, hand them in. The First Humans were going to kill them like before, but one of the leaders said that that would make _them _seem Unpure. It was that reason, that selfish reason, why we are all here today. Watched and montiered so we can harness our Disorders and slave away killing in the army or mining uranium. Or the lucky ones, who control their Disorder enough that they’re like the other Blanks in this world.”

Katrina’s face was still, but her chest was heaving in breaths as though to calm herself. Karl raised a hand and stroked her arm gently, and her breathing settled into an easy rhythm. “Thank you, Karl, now where was I?”

“At the part about our outcome after we leave this school.” I said, wanting to be helpful.

But instead of thanking me, Katrina hissed. “This isn’t a school—it’s a military base! Have you not seen those men?”

“W-well yes,” I mumbled, my cheeks warming, embarrassed, “I thought that was for our protection.”

“Only partly. Those men watch us…all the time. Day, evening, night.” Katrina’s eyes go blank. “They’re even watching us right now, I hear their whispers, their heart beats.” She smiled. “That’s what they want to rid of us, you know, this power.”

I was confused. I didn’t know what she was talking about. I was raised in a home where Disordereds were veiwed as disgusting, inhuman creatures from the darkest shadows of hell. Even talking about one made you Unpure. So my knowledge on Disordereds at the time was low to none.

“What power?” I asked.

Katrina’s smile slowly wiped off her face. “You’ll find out soon enough. They talk about it in class.”

The bell rang so suddenly that it made Karl jump. Everyone, except me, stood up and made their way to their classes. Katrina tossed her and Karl’s trays into a trash can, even being as kind to throw mine away as well. “See you soon, James. And take my request in mind—I would love having a Dual Disordered in my clan.” Katrina walked away with that, but Karl stood hesitantly by my side as I picked myself up.

“Oh…hi.” My voice was quiet. Karl fiddled with the hem of his shirt, head down. I saw his mouth moving but no words were coming out. “I’m sorry, could you say it a bit louder?”

Karl looked up, but instead of speaking louder, he moved closer to me. His breath was warm, smelling of bread as he whispered, “I was wondering if you would like to walk to class with me. I know we share the next one, so I…was wondering….” His face turned bright red, then he moved away and began to walk out the cafeteria.

I blinked a few times, trying to process what he said in my mind. When I had, I ran to him. “Hey! Hey, wait up!”

Karl turned to me when I made it to him, and he did the one thing I still love today.

He smiled.

And I, at that moment, felt that maybe this would work out in my favor somehow in this institution. Something about that smile made my heart grow and my confidence surge.

But how wrong I was—sometimes I admire those who stay innocent. How do they stay in that bubble without something sharp snapping them out of it?

The sun beats hot and cruel on my back as I lie face down in the dust. The dessert is hot. Too hot. I lay deflated on the sand. I must drink the moon. But days in the dessert are long and drag on. The moon hasn’t smiled in a fortnight.

You see I’m a moon child, chosen by the stars to protect the galaxy from the comfort of earth. We are all made of star dust. But I am special. Every night I count the stars that are late reaching us. I record the stars that have exploded and ones that are yet to exist. I’ve measured every meteor shower and precisely timed every lunar eclipse. I keep the human knowledge at bay controlling the forbidden secrets of the universe which one may only receive when their time comes.

But, in order to remain on earth I must have a fragment within me that belongs to the moon a true piece of me reminding the body that I am a moon child. Every week I must drink the moon. It’s a strange process really. I stare into the glittering surface of the moon, raise my lips to the starlight and gently breath in and out. The liquid is pure as existence, it gently trickles down my insides and connects me with the stars. It’s beautiful. The feeling that I am a part of life the feeling that I am connected with everything.

But now I am alone. I’m not sure if I have a chance. Two weeks have already passed. If I don’t drink soon, I will burn and return to the sky as a star. Another moon child will be born and I will no longer have a place on this earth. I whisper the moons name into the clammy air. I need someone to hear me. And like a dream a slow, steady darkness falls over the dessert.

But I’m to late parts of me have already melted into dark matter ,the glue that holds the universe. Then I see it the moon! I lift my head to the starlight, prise open my lips and gulp down the second chance I’ve been offered by the sudden appearance of night. I feel something coursing through my veins, moonlight! As pure as existence.

Slowly I can feel myself! I lift my head then arms until I’m stood upright. Every muscle pumping with moon power. Thank you. I whisper to the stars. Then I dust my arms off and smile at the moon. It’s a wonder how we’re all connected! The stars wink and gleam like my brothers and sisters all cheering me on. And then I see him.

The boy was only a few meters away. Lifting his own lips to the sky. But he didn’t drink the moon, instead he drank the setting sun as it bleached the sky apricot. How was this possible? How were there 2 beings on this earth that could practically drink the galaxy?

The fat noblemen held a succulent leg of chicken and took a great bite. He tore at it and barely chewing, he swallowed in glee as the fat and oil exploded with taste upon his tongue. He was watching with glee at the performance below. A roar caused him to shiver and pause for just a moment before he laughed.

Down below him was a tiger that he paid a pretty penny for. This tiger was circling an thin, old man in light leather armour equipped with a short sword and a buckler. This was hardly much protection and the old man seemed to agree as he shook with fear, waving his sword wildly between them. The tiger continued to calmly stalk around him. The old man frozen on the spot. His sweat drenching his long, grey straw-like hair.

He looked behind him and saw that he was trapped. There were boulder-sized holes haphazardly dug at random in the arena. These holes were not pits. They were holes of no return. He looked down and saw the lower level. Darkness. Void. Falling through would mean certain death. At least, it would be an instant death. Better than being torn into pieces and eaten by the tiger, he thought. He considered the act of falling through the air between the lower level and the middle level and considered whether it would feel like flying. He returned his gaze to the tiger who was slowly prowling towards him. He quickly turned to the hole and without further hesitation, he leapt into it just as the the tiger pounced at where he would have been.

The tiger growled with frustration. His food had escaped. It looked around to see if there was something else to replace his hunger. He saw a strong gladiator hold up a dead man to shield against the tiger’s fellow brethren, the bear. The bear mauled at the dead man and chunks of flesh was shredded away, leaving less shield for the warrior behind. After a few swipes, the gladiator attempted a keen thrust at the bear’s stomach but the bear parried the attack away causing the sword to fly across the dusty floor. The gladiator drops the half mangled corpse shield and runs away to perhaps find another weapon.

Further afield, the tiger scans for his other brethren. The lion. He spots the lion in a battle dance with a woman and a man. Both are quite light-footed as they encircle the lion with swords raised. Always ensuring one was in front and one was behind. They seemed to trust each other, nodding their heads and signalling with their hands. Perhaps a wife and her husband. This will not do. The tiger begins a gallop towards them.

The fat noblemen cheers as pieces of half-chewed meat drops from his mouth. These three animals were born and bred in captivity. They were his babies.

“Eat my children. Eat!”

This week’s harvest was a fairly peculiar one, even for Depression.

He’d caught the typical grievers in their fourth stage, he’d swallowed trauma survivors whole, and he’d captured an innocent and lonely man sitting in the middle of a custody battle.

But what was so different this week was the children.

This was not necessarily an unusual path for the ailment himself to take, but the sheer amount of young souls he held in his pantry proved quite heavy on the dark wooden shelves.

He wasn’t quite tired of sucking the absolute life out of people until they were rotting flesh and bare bone. Blood ran dry quickly whenever Depression was involved. He was a beast, and he was always hungry.

This week he chose to focus on youth simply because he just felt like being a dick. That’s the honest truth, and if you’d asked him yourself that’s exactly what he would’ve told you. 
Depression was shameless. Tall and shadowy, he was a stark contrast to the small, bright minds he so loved the taste of. He was as hollow as he was terrifying, and every lie that escaped his cracked lips was meant to be heard by somebody, no matter how quietly spoken. All of his promises were empty, but at the same time they were fulfilled within seconds.

So when the young souls started tumbling out of his pantry and surrounding him in a dreadful red sea, he took a mental note:

Nᴏᴛᴇ Tᴏ Sᴇʟғ: Bᴜʏ ᴀ Bɪɢɢᴇʀ Pᴀɴᴛʀʏ

Hamish pushed off against the bulkhead, the gentle pressure starting him along a leisurely trajectory down the length of the ships spinal corridor. Some 50 metres ahead of him was the hatch leading to the command module, open as he had left it. Judging the relative distances of the surrounding walls he surmised that the launch was a good one, straight and true. Reaching his arms out either side of him and tilting his chin ‘up’ he closed his eyes. Picturing himself flying along the corridor in a parody of an ascension into the Rapture made him smile. He felt like an Angel, drifting through the air in complete defiance of gravity. The harsh white strip lights that lit the way at regular intervals along the corridor played across his eye lids, the rhythmic flashing almost hypnotic. Counting down from 30 he took slow, deep breaths, keeping his body as still as he could. The slightest shift in his centre of mass could spoil his flight, knocking him out of the perfect equilibrium of zero gravity that ran along the ships axis of rotation and into the mild tug of the artificial gravity of the outer hull. If that happened then his perfect run of 17 days straight would be ruined and he was only two days off of his record. Fail to beat that and the bottle of 60 year-old Scotch would have to wait yet another 19 days to be uncorked. Reaching the five-count, he tucked his knees up into his body and brought his arms around in an arc, initiating a 180 degree spin which, if timed correctly, would complete just as his body aligned itself with the main acceleration couch.

“Three, two, one - nailed it,” he said aloud as he opened his eyes and reached out his hands at the same time to grasp the arms of the chair. “And the crowd goes wild!”, he shouted, letting out a whoop of triumph, “Yet ANOTHER perfect run for McBride! Just two more and the dram is his!”

Settling down into the gel-filled chair at the command console he let out a long sigh. The weak 0.5 G tugged lightly at his body, feeling strange but welcome after his victory flight down the corridor. Flicking a few switches to activate the forward facing observation screens he looked up and out into - nothing. The total black of space as seen from out of atmosphere was surprisingly different from what most people were used to. The inky blackness so deep that it was almost a tangible thing - not so much an absence of light than the antithesis of it, contrasting with the bright pinpricks of stars that looked almost fake without the twinkling of their meagre light refracting through the air.

The only thing that broke up the stochastic repetition of the stars against the veil of the space between was the ever-present lantern that was Jupiter, just off-centre of the forward display. Orbiting around it was his destination, Ganymede, the gas giant’s seventh satellite. Galilei IV was his final stop, the science station that orbited the large moon, and also where he would offload the 800 tonnes of assorted goods and equipment in his current haul. Once that was done, the Artemis Fowl would then be loaded back up with a near equal mass of precious metals mined from the surface of the moon for his return trip back to Earth. Total turnaround time was projected to be in the region of 16 days, but lacking anything even remotely approaching real-time communication at such distances, logistic updates were few and far between. From previous experience this was unlikely to be the case and even with precise arrival times whose calculations were far too complex for Hamish’s puny biological mind to even understand, it was probable that the folks of G-4 would not have the shipment ready on-time. Hamish didn’t mind, though, a bit of extended shore-leave would be very welcome. He’d heard that the hydroponic installations on the surface of the moon were now producing an interesting and exotic array of new plant phenotypes, which the burgeoning colonies inhabitants were turning into mouth-watering dishes and delicacies that made the best chefs back home salivate in envy. Mind you, right now camp-fire roasted road-kill would make Hamish trade a toe for over what was on offer on the Artemis Fowl.

It was probably a good thing, though, he grudgingly could see some sense in the Spongiform Fungal Archetype Twelve (S-FAT for short) that had found its way into being the main-stay of long-haul interplanetary travel. Not needing any form of sunlight, being able to be grown in complete darkness and engineered to filter and absorb nutrients from ships waste and air, it was the perfect accompaniment to space travel. Pretty much everything that was produced by humans in the deep of space, S-FAT ate it up. It was ideal for long trips such as the Earth-Jupiter run and excelled when scaled up to the larger-crewed colony frigates and science vessels bound for the outer planets. It wasn’t just the general ship-board utility of the fungus that made sense, though, it could be completely dehydrated and compressed into one-tenth volume, meaning that vast amounts of excess product could be packaged up and stored, providing a pretty much limitless supply of food, a ready-to-eat all-in-one nutritional package - all that was required was the addition of a small amount of water. Or piss. It’s utility was so great that even when harvested and dehydrated, the introduction of any water-based fluid would rehydrate it into all it’s sponge-like glory and the newly re-activated bacteria would break down the waste and re-purpose it into all manner of salts and minerals. This, however, was a bit of a hard-swallow (literally). It still tasted like solid piss. Despite it’s flavour-challenged nature, though, there was a budding community of entrepreneurs who made it their mission to create an entire cuisine around S-FAT and it’s cousins. A not insignificant portion of Hamish’s personal mass-allowance was taken up by a wide variety of spices and freeze-dried vegetables, but despite his best efforts everything he tried had only muted the blandness of the thing. Only the addition of some of his prized Scotch in place of water (he saved the piss for purely cultivation, not re-hydration) had some semblance of success in increasing the palatability of the thing. However, that liquid gold was more precious to him than clean air and the feel of solid ground beneath his feet. He shuddered at the idea of a return trip sans-Whisky, space-craziness was a very real thing, especially when travelling such vast distances alone, as he was prone to.

He wondered what space-travel would actually be like if you could eat like ‘normal’. He’d never gone on one of the cruises for the ultra-rich - and never would, on his pay. On those, they ate like kings - steak, potatoes, fresh fruit and vegetables, exotic fish - ice cream! Everything you could ask for, they had. Not grunts like him, though, no, he had to make do with piss-cultivated, lab-grown mushroom-wannabe cubes that looked like brains and tasted of vacuum-sealant. He’d kill for a steak. He knew men that had. Still, ‘least he didn’t have to worry about getting fat. Proper exercise was difficult without full gravity - especially the weak-assed stuff that was generated by the measly rotation of the Artemis Fowl’s outer ring. Bare minimum, that’s all that he was afforded. Some bloody accountant back on Earth had crunched the numbers and maximised profit margins by minimising expenditure on operating costs. Just enough G to mitigate muscle and bone atrophy for long-haul flights. Of course, they didn’t understand that a lot of the time in transit would be spent away from the pathetic tug of the outer ring, so even that wouldn’t be enough. The period of re-acclimatisation to standard G back on Earth was always a killer, he had to spend most of his down-time hitting the gym to build his strength back up before being shipped out on the next supply run. Was damn hard to keep the weight off when back planet-side, and all too easy to blow much of his pay on fancy meals. Some of the guys didn’t bother, though, instead they kept up the S-FAT diet. The way they saw it, the temptation wasn’t worth it. You didn’t miss it if you didn’t ever have it. Not Hamish, though. He did kind of enjoy these long stints away, time to be with himself, reflect on life, get away from the massive overpopulation that was the cities of Earth. Didn’t mean he didn’t grab life by the balls with both hands the first opportunity he got when back down the well, though.

Looking back down at the communications console, he made a few final edits to the update log he’d compiled while down in engineering, corrected a few transposition errors, confirmed course projections were still accurate and fired off the daily report back the main office in Paris. Confirming the communique was on it’s way, he once again flicked the forward displays to ‘off’ and pushed away from the acceleration couch, floating back up in the null-G. Kicking out with his legs he drifted towards the access hatch leading back into the main ship, the faint rumble of his stomach shockingly loud in the near-dead silence of the cabin. Time to visit the galley for another serving of fungal joy. Maybe he should break open the Scotch, to hell with his stupid rules - a couple of measures to re-hydrate and the last of his sea salt and paprika? Why not? A life without treats is a life without joy, and if there was one thing that Hamish prized above all else, it was those moments of joy. And whisky. Oh yes.

I don’t enjoy it.

The work is tedious, messy, and gruesome. All I have going for me is a strong gag reflex, and good intentions.

I used to blame it on the devil, labelling it a curse and screaming at the world for casting it onto me. Each time I make a kill, guilt courses through every corner of my body, an overwhelming pain strikes the side of my head as if prodding at me to stop. As the last breathe leaves their lips a sliver of my soul breaks off and is never returned. I whisper an apology under my breathe to every victim, they didn’t deserve it, but then again, I didn’t deserve this.

It’s all torturous to admit, still my hunger takes over my morals and seemingly my entire body when my eyes fall onto my next meal walking through the streets.

The weather summons goosebumps onto my pale arms, a small sacrifice for all the advantages this season brings. Winter gifts me long nights and frigid short days, meaning more time to hunt with the veil of darkness as my disguise, serving as a cloak of invisibility.

I find my eyes trailing a lean female with a beautifully patterned coat and almost sassy strut. A charisma that draws me in, and begins to brings curiosity to my thoughts. I wonder if she has family who will miss her, friends who will grieve.

I take a hesitant step forward, branches breaking under the soles of my shoes. My victim heads towards an empty alley directly towards my left, raising my hopes along with my appetite.

When she reaches the entrance, I find myself only feet away from her reach, her smell piercing my senses. It clouds my thoughts and my vision is overtaken by my growling stomach, at this moment remorse is no longer a threat. My hand trails over the merciless knife in the back of my pants readily, the ghost of its victims seem to haunt to air.

Before I am aware, my dubiousness catches up to me, and two sapphire eyes catch mine as I crouch behind the snow coated bushes. My blood turns cold and my heart is now racing against time, my hands grasping the knife and pulling it before me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

But before I can lunge at her, I find her on top of me, a knife gripped in her fist. I see her arm come down and something sharp piercing through my skin. My vision blurs and loud scream escaped my mouth, as a warm liquid trickles down my chest. Pure agony.

When I open them again my victim, is sitting before me, eyes glued to the floor with a silver knife in her shaking hands. I feel my self fading, the pain becoming numb. This is how my victims feel.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I’m like this,” she chokes out, meeting my eyes.

“I’m just so hungry, and you looked so good.”

I remember the day she came. She sashayed into the house, gave my mum a warm smile, and then we were alone. She was kind. She was gracious. She was likeable. You wouldn’t expect anything to be off with her. She cooked me dinner every night my parents were out. It was always the same thing. Chicken. It didn’t taste like chicken, though. It was sweet and tender. Whenever my mum made me chicken I would scream and cry because she didn’t make it right. Mum asked her how she made it, she stammered on about soaking it in sauce overnight. No matter what mum tried, it wasn’t the same. I became addicted to my babysitters home cooked meals. Her cooking was amazing. Sometimes it was in a sandwich. Sometimes a stew. Sometimes a salad, but it always tasted amazing. One day I went to find her before she started cooking dinner, with a notepad and pen so that she could write down her secret cooking recipe. That’s when I found out. Her secret recipe wasn’t sauce, or breast, or steaming or anything like that. It was people.

My guilty pleasure has always been make-up. “That’s not a guilty pleasure though.” You might say, but I don’t wear it. I eat it. People thinks it’s gross, but I think that if they tried it, they would love it too. It’s so good! At school, I always get yelled at if I ate it, so I began to put it on a sandwich at home. It definitely wasn’t as good in a sandwich, but it was better than not eating it. My parents say I have a problem, but I truly think that I don’t. It’s actually healthy. It just has a few chemicals that may not be the best for you. I love eating it on everything. There was one week where all I ate was makeup, but I got really sick so I figured I should probably eat a little other food too. I just cannot get enough of it. I’ve tried to get other people to try it, but they just run away and call me a creep. I don’t know what it is about makeup. It’s just really good.

Charlie Jacobs was a strange sort of chap. Outwardly he seemed like everyone else - just like you or me. But under the surface, Charlie was a wreck. A biggish sized man, he was pale of complexion, he seemed to be robust and although not athletically stupendous was as fit as many men his age, he was 43, and had never been ill in his life. He had a chirpy sense of humour and, in the printing office where he worked, Charlie was usually part of the banter and chat that always went on around the kitchen and, he was a noted wit in the the office email banter - this was one of those places where political correctness was still considered with a healthy laissez-faire. No one ever said anything out of line, but much of the banter definitely had a bit of an edge to it.

Where most people drank tea or coffee in the office, there were a couple of trendy mavericks who drank kombucha or any number of other trendy sounding things, usually involving some weird process involving either letting something go mouldy or battering something to a pulp. Charlie was strictly an orange juice fan. In fact, in all of recorded time (actually about 8 years in the office), no one had ever seen Charlie drink anything else. Smooth orange juice from a carton with no bits. For lunch, where everyone had a salad, or a soup, or a ham roll, or a pastrami on rye with dill pickle, or a reheated pasta from the night before or even a cold pizza slice taken hurriedly from the fridge before diving out to catch the bus and not be late for work, Charlie ate a pale cheese (always grated) on white bread sandwich. He never ate anything else. What’s more, he never had anything else for breakfast. Or for his evening meal. Charlie lived on grated cheese sandwiches and orange juice. And nothing else.

As a baby he was eventually weaned off milk, but was extremely anxious - to the point of vomiting if he tried new foods. He screamed and cried continuously. The only thing that pleased him was a grated cheese sandwich. As a child his parents despaired- they tried everything but Charlie would get such a massive anxiety attack if presented with anything other than a grated cheese sandwich that in the end they gave up. Over the years Charlie had made several attempts to try other things but the thought of the different textures and tastes made him so terribly anxious he couldn’t function. Charlie dreaded being invited out to dinner, or even to lunch. Charlie was an anxiety car crash at the thought of a fish finger - although for his whole life he was always driven to try new things, which usually ended up with him being unable to swallow a pea-sized lump of whatever it was he was trying out and then being terribly sick.

Charlie, on one of his desperate attempts to broaden his diet, discovered a new sort of orange juice. He was so proud of himself for trying something new and not being an anxious whimpering mess that he adopted the new drink with gusto, guzzling it down by the pint. It was smooth - so no horrid bits, it was really tasty with that orange tang he really liked and was half the price of his original brand. Charlie was properly chuffed with himself. The juice was branded ‘Knave’ - Like Smooth-Pressed Navel Oranges But Better! It was aimed at fit men who trained in the gym and wore, for reasons not really understood, vast quantities of lycra. In smaller writing on the back of the carton was a list of the ingredients and none of them were recognisable as an orange - even the old favourite add in for cheap juice, ascorbic acid was missing off the list - although, of course, other e-numbers were present, and, even more excitingly acacia gum, propylene glycol, ethyl alcohol and loads of other healthy things

In his 43 years, Charlie was always well (apart from vomiting regularly from the anxiety of being presented with some novel food like french fries or steak). And he felt great on his new juice. Then one day, there was a change in Charlie. His skin became blotchy. He developed bruises on parts of his body where he leant against anything. His legs swelled and bruised and the bruises bled. One day one of his teeth just fell out and his gums were bleeding. He had blue spots on his ankles. Charlie lost his sense of humour and was exhausted all the time. Charlie died very soon after becoming unwell. Everyone was very upset.

I sit down at the dinner table. It’s an amazing meal. Hearty meat with mashed potatoes and peas. I learned how to cook from my father.

“Mix it not just sit there!” Dad yelled, hitting me in the back of the head. “Yes sir. I’m sorry sir” I respond. I try to mix faster but the batter is just too thick. The whisk breaks, splitting the wire and mixing rust and steel into the batter. “Great job there moron! Would you like to give it a taste test?” He insultingly asks. He grabs a handful of wire and mix and shoves it into my mouth. The wire cuts into my cheeks and I try to split it up in my mouth.

I try to spit it out but dad had made sure I wouldn’t. He covers my mouth with a rag. Now I can’t breathe and I have wire cutting me. I start to cry, hoping it would do something. That mom would get up from the floor and stop staying so still. I wanted to believe it was good colouring. He told me it was good colouring. I swallow it all. The wire splits of throat open. The rust sticks to my mouth.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” He asks, suddenly calm again. I try to speak but my tongue is bleeding. My mouth is bleeding. I sit down on the floor, bleeding and crying. Each yell of pain only opened the cuts wider. Dad takes the bowl and puts it in a pan and puts it in the oven. “Happy Birthday you ungrateful brat”

I cut the meat into smaller pieces and then take a bite. She tastes delicious. It’s such a shame she can’t taste herself like this. My knife, still coated in a thick layer of blood, cuts through the meat like butter. It’s soft, juicy, and best of all, tastes like her perfume smells.

“You are wonderful, my dear.” I say to her. She stays slumped over the counter as rigour mortis sets in. I smile, her blood seeps out of my mouth like my 10th birthday. It was such a wonderful cake.

“I wonder how her liver tastes?”