What makes me a monster
Um … where are my clothes?
I sit up in a vain attempt to regain my dignity but quickly get disorientated and have to lay back down.
‘What in the holy hell?’ I mutter groggily, suppressing my sudden urge to vomit.
It appears clothes aren’t the only thing I’m missing. I also seem to have lost my ability to go out drinking like I used to.
Oh … bother.
As I stare at the unfamiliar stone ceiling, wondering where on Earth I am, I blink back the ferocious migraine building like a traffic jam behind my eyes.
Stone walls. Stone floor. So I’m either in some kind of basement, or … the stone store?
Since my impeccable deduction skills are serving me so well, I decide to try sitting up again, with considerably more care this time. Thankfully, I manage this without dinner putting in a reappearance, and glance over the flagstones for my clothes.
It’s freezing in here, perhaps I’m somewhere underground?
Through the chattering of my teeth, I try to remember the last time I felt this cold, maybe … when I used to be alive?
No matter, I tell myself, hugging my bony arms to my freckled chest, first, find something to wear. Worry about your hangover later.
But before I can do anything of the sort, a slice of the wall slides open, and a man enters the basement.
‘Excuse me!’ I snap, covering as much of my body as possible with my palms. ‘It’s polite to knock!’
But the man doesn’t appear startled by my presence, and it’s then that I register he’s carrying a pitchfork.
Oh this is bad. In fact, this situation is starting to look remarkably prison-like.
The man levels his pitchfork at me, trying his hardest to keep his eyes focused on my face, but they keep betraying him.
‘Look,’ he sighs, unwrapping a thick cloak from around his shoulders, ‘just put this on.’
‘Why?’ I demand. ‘Am I distracting you?’
‘Would you just do it, please?’ he replies, raising his eyes to the stone ceiling as if in prayer.
Good luck with that, I think, I’m living prove that God isn’t listening.
Well … I say living …
Nevertheless, I do as the man asks. I mean, he is holding a pitchfork for crying out loud! A pitchfork! In 2021!
‘Now what?’ I wonder, hopping from foot to foot to get some feeling back into my extremities.
‘Stay still,’ the man commands, pointing the pitchfork at me again, only this time I can see his hands are shaking.
‘I just want to know what’s going on,’ I reply as calmly as I can, which is pretty calm considering the PITCHFORK!
‘You don’t remember?’ the man asks quietly.
I run a sheepish hand through my cropped hair.
‘Afraid not, my good sir, so perhaps you could fill in the blanks?’
The man looks surprisingly reluctant, and it strikes me then how young he must be, certainly no more than twenty-five. He’s unusually tall for his age.
‘Fine,’ he agrees tersely, ‘you came here last night. Wobbling all over the place, like you were drunk.’
‘No ‘like’ about it,’ I say regrettably, rubbing my aching head, ‘I was well and truly hammered last night.’
‘Well,’ the man continues, ‘you were knocking at my door for ages, begging to be let in, and, idiot that I am, I did.’ He squares his jaw. ‘I should’ve guessed you … weren’t human.’
Ouch, it’s been a while since I’ve been insulted so openly.
‘But by that point, you were so far gone, you practically fell into the basement,’ the man concludes, ‘and I left you here to … sleep it off.’
‘Fantastic,’ I smile brightly, ‘I thank you for that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be off.’
But the man blocks my way with his pitchfork.
‘I’m afraid I’m unable to teleport through solid materials,’ I laugh, but it sounds weak even to me as I attempt to side-step my jailer.
‘And I’m afraid I can’t let you leave,’ the man admits, blushing to the tips of his curls as he blocks my path with his lanky frame.
I sigh. ‘Look … hang on a second. I don’t think I caught your name?’
The man blinks fearfully. ‘I didn’t give it to you. Can’t have you getting power over me.’
‘Okay, ‘I didn’t give it to you’, don’t you think that if I wanted power over you, I’d have it by now?’ I wonder, fighting back a sudden dizzy spell that sees me leaning against the nearest stony wall for support.
The man seems to realise that I’m in no fighting condition as he finally lowers his pitchfork.
‘D-do you … want some water?’ he stutters.
‘Yes, that would be wonderful,’ I reply, ‘make sure it’s filtered though, with a dash of lime.’
The man scuttles off, taking great care to close the door behind him. A few minutes later he returns with a small jug of water.
‘Thanks, ‘I didn’t give it to you’,’ I say sincerely, abandoning all propriety as I gulp down the jug’s contents in a matter of seconds while the man watches, mouth hanging open.
‘Shame there was no lime,’ I conclude, smacking my lips.
‘Wow,’ the man says simply, ‘that was … impressive.’
I wink at him. ‘You should see how quickly I can make it reappear.’
‘Please, don’t,’ the man replies, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, ‘you made enough of a mess last night.’
‘Ah,’ I mutter, ‘yes, I tend to make a mess when I’ve been drinking.’
The man flinches at my words.
‘Alcohol!’ I clarify. ‘I was drinking alcohol. Not people, I swear!’
The man’s shoulders sag with relief.
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ he admits, ‘you weren’t exactly in good shape.’
I wince and he laughs. It’s a coarse sound, louder than I would’ve expected, but at least there’s no fear behind it.
‘My name’s Austin,’ he says, offering a hand to me.
‘Radomir,’ I reply, taking his hand.
‘No, you dope,’ he laughs again, ‘pass me the jug.’
‘Oh,’ I mutter, looking down at the stone floor, embarrassed.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I can feel Austin watching me, and the rational part of my mind finally registers that he’s faintly good-looking, so I try looking thoughtful and brooding.
‘Are … are you okay?’ he wonders. ‘You look kind of constipated.’
Well that backfired.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I say quickly, ‘I’m fine.’
Austin doesn’t look convinced but, thankfully, doesn’t say any more. Instead he hugs the jug closer.
‘So … if you weren’t out drinking people,’ he says, ‘and you can’t control me with your mind … I suppose … I should let you go.’
‘Right,’ I agree, ‘or else this is bordering on wrongful imprisonment.’
‘Right,’ he echoes, ‘and we wouldn’t want that.’
Silence falls between us then, just as I’m struck by a sudden realisation.
Good Lord, have we been flirting?
It’s been so long since I’ve flirted with anyone, I’m not entirely sure that’s what’s happening. But if it is … I rather like it. And I don’t want to have to leave, not without knowing for certain.
‘I don’t suppose I could trouble you for some food?’ I find myself saying, ‘I’m feeling rather ravenous.’
This isn’t strictly true, I’m not sure I should be trusted with anything other than water right now, but I need some kind of excuse to continue talking to Austin.
‘Of course,’ he says brightly, and I feel something warm settle in my stomach, ‘um … follow me.’
He leads me up a set of steps – stone, how original – into a sun-drenched kitchen, complete with a blackened cooking pot over a roaring fire and surrounded by stools.
‘How very … quaint,’ I manage, as I ease my weight onto the nearest stool, unspeakably grateful for his hospitality.
‘Thank you,’ Austin smiles, considerably more friendly now there’s not a pitchfork between us, ‘I collect a lot of vintage items, to match the house. It’s an original Tudor build, you know?’
I nod, not trusting myself to confess how this looks more like the middle ages than ‘vintage’.
‘Is it just you living here?’ I ask politely, warming my frozen fingers over the fire.
‘Just me,’ he echoes, preoccupied with whatever’s simmering in the cooking pot.
My eyes drift over to a dark mark on the floorboards, about as wide as my palm, and a similar splodge a few feet away.
Did I really make that much of a mess last night? I wonder. I mean, that stain looks remarkably like –
‘Stew’s ready!’ Austin declares, filling a bowl with a flourish and offering it to me. And the smell of it is so intoxicating I just have to take a heavy spoonful.
‘Mmm,’ I say, speaking entirely honestly for once, ‘this is delicious! What kind of meat is it?’
‘Oh, um,’ Austin blushes, ‘I don’t know. Whatever the butcher gave me.’
‘Well, you tell him, it’s incredible,’ I say through a mouthful of food.
‘You like it?’ Austin asks hopefully.
‘Mmm. It’s so tender.’
The rest of our meal passes with only the crackling of the fire and the slurping of stew for a soundtrack, until Austin asks me to pass him the pepper from the cupboard behind me.
So I do.
Or, at least, I try to.
‘Austin,’ I say calmly, which is quite remarkable given the circumstances, ‘why do you have a corpse in your cupboard?’
‘Ah, um … that’s a very good question,’ Austin replies.
‘Are you going to answer it?’ I return, surreptitiously checking the room for exits.
There’s a door leading to a living room, or the window above the sink –
‘Well, I suppose word would’ve gotten out eventually,’ Austin sighs, hiding his face behind his hands.
‘Word?’ I mutter, already hiking my leg up onto the sink.
‘The thing is …’ Austin mumbles, ‘is … well I … I’m a cannibal.’
His words are so unexpected, so ridiculous, that I can’t help but laugh.
‘You?’ I splutter, almost sliding into the sink. ‘A cannibal?’
‘Yes,’ Austin growls defensively, ‘as a matter of fact, I am.’
‘Really?’ I scoff.
‘Yes, really!’ Austin retorts childishly. ‘I’m a cannibal. I eat people.’
‘You?’ I giggle, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes. ‘A cannibal?’
‘Thank you for taking this so seriously,’ Austin remarks sullenly.
I keep laughing like that for a few more moments until an altogether worrying thought pops into my head.
‘Wait, were you keeping me in that basement to eat me?’ I demand, crossing my arms over my chest, hoping it makes me look threatening or, at the very least, extremely cross.
‘No,’ Austin mutters, then catches my glare, ‘well … maybe.’
‘That’s good to know!’ I snap sarcastically, turning my attention back to my escape through the window.
‘It’s nothing personal, Radomir,’ Austin insists, ‘it’s just that I’ve never eaten someone undead before so –’
‘So you thought you’d eat me?’
‘Hey, you came to me!’
‘That was before I knew you were a cannibal!’
‘Unless I’m very much mistaken,’ Austin says coldly, ‘you eat people too.’
I stop moving, fingers lingering over the window latch. ‘That’s … different.’
Because it is. Because eating someone when you’re undead doesn’t count as cannibalism. Because…
‘I’m not a person.’ I say, my voice so quiet it’s practically a whisper.
I haven’t been a person for years now.
That is, after all, what makes me a monster.
‘Radomir,’ Austin says softly, ‘that’s not true.’
‘You said it yourself,’ I snap, ‘I’m not human. So what am I? A monster!’
‘No,’ Austin sighs, ‘I’m the monster here. A cannibal? God, what was I thinking?’
‘You do make a nice stew, though,’ I admit shyly.
‘Really?’ Austin chuckles.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, ‘best cannibal stew I’ve ever tasted.’
‘You can’t have had many cannibal stews then,’ Austin concludes, pulling absentmindedly on a loose thread on his shirtsleeve. The sight of it alone is enough to make my frozen heart thaw.
I take a deep breath, gathering my strength, before sliding off the sink.
Because, idiot that I am, I still don’t want to leave.
‘Who’s on the menu anyway?’ I wonder, wandering over to the cupboard for a closer look.
The lifeless corpse stares back at me, his unblinking eyes locked in a state of perpetual terror. He’s been stuffed into the cupboard surprisingly well, with his knees contorted over his ears and his arms bent at unnatural angles.
‘That’s Colin,’ Austin explain, ‘my boyfriend. Well … um … ex-boyfriend now.’
‘Trouble in paradise?’ I ask nonchalantly, trying to hide my very obvious excitement upon learning that Austin’s single.
‘I suppose you could say it was inevitable,’ Austin admits, ‘he had huge gambling debts, and I was hungry.’
‘There are worse ways to go,’ I shrug, sitting back on my stool next to Austin, ‘I once ate a man who was otherwise preoccupied with the urinal at a petrol station.’
Austin laughs, and I do my best to commit it to memory. The way he throws his head back and cackles. Truly a magnificent sight.
Come on Radomir, get it together. He’s a cannibal. Admittedly a very good looking cannibal, but still a cannibal.
‘Besides,’ I add, ‘at least you’ve put him to good use. A man that size? He’ll easily last you a few months.’
‘I suppose,’ Austin shrugs, shifting his gaze shyly to the fire, ‘unless …’
‘Unless?’ I repeat, hardly daring to breathe.
‘Unless you wanted to stay?’ he wonders. ‘Just for a little bit. Or not. I just thought if you liked the stew –’
‘I do!’ I say eagerly. ‘I do want to stay. And I do like the stew. I really like the stew. I really, really like the stew.’
Maybe Austin understands that I’m not actually talking about the stew because he blushes.
‘Great,’ he smiles, ‘then I’ll get another batch going.’