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?”