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Meat The Parents


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I remember when Dad used to come home and we would watch the news together. He would always make some sort of funny comment, something to make Jo and me laugh. He had this really crude humor, something not really suitable for Jo and I at the time. I still remember the one where he would always threaten to leave Mom for the news anchor lady with perky body. Mom would always roll her eyes and tell him to go try his luck. Dad loved when she did this, because he took this as an opportunity to jump on her and start kissing her. was pretty idiotic of him thinking back on it, because we were in the family room and he would always get food all over the couch and carpet. Jo and I would always cover our eyes and make sounds of disgust. My Mom would start to get really angry, but he had this boyish charm of getting away with everything. I once overheard my teacher talking about Dad in first grade, saying how charming he was. The only time Mom ever really got mad at him was when he hit Jo on the head for fighting at school. Mom was against any sort of physical punishment, because her dad was horrible to her. She told me once that if I ever hit another person, she would sew my arms behind my back. I took her really seriously and never hit anyone, not even Jo. Even when Jo broke my favorite train-set, I didn’t hit him. I killed his hermit crabs instead. He cried all night long, but never figured out what happened. That memory still brings joy to my body.


When I reached fourth grade and Jo was in sixth, Dad stopped coming home for dinner. First it happened a couple times a week, but soon it became every night. I would basically only see him on the weekends. I couldn’t even see him in the mornings because he had to get up early for work. He seemed more stressed than usual, often walking around hunched over, with eye bags like pizza dough. He would still smile and hug me, just not nearly as often. Jo and I were saddened that we couldn’t see Dad often, but Mom took it much harder. She used to wait for Dad to come home, get all dolled up and prepare a hearty dinner. Mom started to forget to make dinner sometimes, and Jo would have to remind her. And when she did make it, it wasn’t nearly as good as it used to be. There was no effort put into the food, no love. One day when Jo and I got home from school, a large stack of can food rested upon the table. When I asked Mom about it, she said that Jo and I would start making dinner for ourselves. Mom spent the evenings drinking and smoking in the backyard. Eating only canned food for a month was fine, but Jo and I were starting to get really sick of it. One day, Jo politely asked Mom if she could make dinner. She flipped out and started yelling at him. With her disheveled hair, cigarette in one hand, bottle of Jack in the other, she made out to be quite a terrifying sight. I could’ve sworn that she was going to break the bottle on Jo’s head but she simply cursed us out and went into her bedroom. That was the last time Jo ever asked her to make dinner for us. I told Dad about what happened, but all he did was give me a pathetic smile and pat my head. I was young at the time, but fourth grade is old enough to sense when things weren’t going too well.


By the time I was in ninth grade, I hardly saw Dad at all. Whether it was work or golf, he seemed to never be home. Whenever I by chance saw him, the only thing he gave me was a quick nod or grunt. Mom didn’t seem to care at all anymore; her life was the bottle. It came to no surprise to me the day Dad left. I was pretty sure he was cheating on her for a while, it was just a matter of time. He didn’t even say goodbye. He didn’t even officially divorce Mom because he didn’t want to pay alimony. Apparently supporting his kids wasn’t worth it. Jo, Mom, and I had to move into a trailer park. There was a tiny kitchen, a main bedroom, a beaten-up sofa and one bathroom for us to share. I had to sleep on the floor. I didn’t mind sleeping on the floor, but Jo would often come in at strange hours in the night, waking me up. Jo became more and more isolated from me as time went by. He still loved me, but he had better things to do. Jo was busy partying and enjoying high school while he could, not caring about the future. Well, its hard to care about the future when you feel like you don’t have one. Mom wouldn’t let either of us get jobs, because she was worried it would affect welfare. Everyone at school knew who I was. I was that kid whose Dad left him and Mom’s an alcoholic. In middle school, I used to have a couple of good friends, but since Dad left i didn’t ever really talk to anyone. This was mainly due to the fact that Mom was getting worse and worse everyday. In the mornings, I would have to wake her up, drag her to the kitchen, and make her a large pot of coffee to alleviate her hangover. Life was pretty bad, but when Jo left, things got even worse.


You know that saying like father like son? Well guess what, its true. Jo salvaged whatever money he could get his hands on, and left for who knows where. I hated him at the time, but I couldn’t blame him. He had no future taking care of Mom, so he put it on me. I was in my senior year, with straight A’s and a chance at a scholarship. What did he have? a one point nine gpa and a record with cops. Mom was at the point where if I had the money, I would’ve sent her to rehab; she was out of control. Beforehand, she used to be a sad drunk. After Jo left, its like a switch went off in her brain, telling her to hit the nearest thing possible. The nearest thing possible was often me. First it started off as half-hearted punches, but one day I came home to her waiting with a knife in her hand.

She said, “So you bastard, decided to return. You left me for that blonde whore. Ditching me to care for these good for nothing kids.” She must have thought I was Dad because I look a lot like him. It was a little surprising that she never confused me earlier. Considering how drunk she always was, it came to my head how this was the first time. With as much speed as she could muster, she ran over to me and took a swing at me. It was a clumsy attempt at a slash; I side-stepped it with ease. This enraged her further, causing her to chase after me. I was enjoying it. I liked the feeling of being in charge, of watching my Mom struggle. I started toying with her, letting her come close to stabbing me, and then quickly eluding her. Eventually, she tripped, falling on the knife, impaling her intestines. Her dirty dress was stained with blood, and her moans were so pitiful. I loved it. I was so aroused by the sounds of her pain. I removed the knife from her stomach, but noticed that the blood was exiting extremely quickly. I reinserted the knife, making sure to plug the gap. She shrieked again, cursing my Dad’s name. As much as I hated to, I had to shut her up. I couldn’t have anyone overhearing my Mom’s shrieks. That would be very unfortunate. I gagged her with a t-shirt. It wasn’t easy though. Despite being stabbed, she put up quite a fight. During the struggle, some of her blood managed to get in my mouth. It was warm, with the faintest tint of iron. Delicious. It tasted kind of like when my Mother used to make home cooked meals. Isn’t a funny how my Mom tasted like the food she used to make? No? Whatever I thought it was kind of comical. I tied her to the bed, and carefully making sure not to spill too much blood. I couldn’t help think, but if her blood tasted so good, imagine how good her flesh tastes. I was worried how much she would thrash if I cut a piece of her arm off. Regretfully, I had to kill her. A shame really, I really wanted to play with her more. To avoid making a mess, I strangled her with a pillow. Not as fun as it looks in movies to be honest. After slicing off a good portion of her arm, I tried eating it raw. I guess it was ok, something like beef tartare. I felt disgusted, only savages eat meat raw. I oiled down the frying pan, and fried the meat up. It took a while because the chunk of meat was pretty big. After waiting for the meat to cool, I took a quick bite. Heavenly. I was addicted. The consistency, the flavor, jesus christ. I remember when my Dad took us to a fancy restaurant and we got steak as a family. That steak we got can’t even compare to how good this meat tasted. Anyways, over the next couple weeks, I ate my Mom. Sometimes with a nice Cabernet, or even french fries. I actually had spare money because Mom wasn’t around to spend it all. I got new shoes, a couple of shirts, and a meat grinder. Life was good.


You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this story. I know you probably don’t care about my childhood, or anything like that. I really need to vent to someone. Its hard living with all this emotional baggage, you know? I hope that you don’t hate me or anything. You want a pop chip or something? I’ve got some beer in my trunk if you want any. You know how farmers like to force feed their animals with like, special grains and stuff? I kind of want to try that with humans to see how much of a change in flavor that makes. Or maybe even like human babies, like veal. Just imagining the soft, tender flesh moistens my tongue. Well, sorry that you have to die now, but it was great talking to you. Really great. I’ll make sure to be at your funeral. Hey, you may get lucky and get a high review for flavor. I haven’t had a good eat in a while. If you taste good enough, I’ll probably find your family and go after them. Blood is thicker than water, especially in the coronary artery. Bon Voyage! Say hi to my Mom, Dad, and Dad’s wife on the other side. Oh, and make sure to greet Jo when he comes through. I wouldn’t want him to get lonely, like I did when he left.




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