New York: Where the Weak Are Killed and Eaten
collage by Nicole Ciancia.
I
30 seconds into the song and I’ve already started drawing the blood from her jugular vein. “Africa” by Toto echoed through the halls on the 30th floor of my studio apartment in Manhattan. The back den behind my dining room was a perfect working space for me. With my light-blocking curtains drawn and thick insulated walls keeping all sounds inside, I slide on my leather Bottega Veneta gloves and get to work. I’d rather not work with screaming meat, so a sedative is necessary. Pain is not. Just minutes before her last breath, Rohypnol lets my meal ease into unconsciousness as she takes her last sip of the last mixed drink I had prepared for her. Only this time we were drinking at a bar under the light of my fireplace which was mimicking the color of the sunrise, only hours away at this point.
Growing up and working in a slaughterhouse, my exceptional knife skills also came in handy in the city.
By the time the sun was rising, I finished carving her softest ligaments. Her ass was nice for gripping. I remember kneeling over her naked body earlier that night while we were in bed. Her back was facing my bedroom ceiling and her chest was pressed against my sheets. I was practically drooling at how badly I wanted to devour her then and there. I sank my teeth into her cheeks. I typically go for the breasts first but they were plump and swollen and I could smell her menstrual cycle was 6 weeks late. It was convenient, turns out I wasn’t as hungry as I thought I was for her. She was more admirable than the typical meal and a part of me felt wrong trying to tear open the belly of a pregnant woman. I still had to eat though. I placed her belongings along with her violet skirt to burn in the fireplace. I delivered her silver stilettos to my neighbor. I think she’s a size 8 too. I cleaned up what was left of her scraps and enjoyed one more glass of scotch before I washed my scalping tools and cut her hair. Lyza makes me wash the hair with products that make it shiny and as soft as baby skin but I don’t particularly like the faint smell of lavender it has. It reminds me too much of my mother's garden on the Finnish Countryside, she seems to be the reason I’m missing extremities and need to spend $600 on gloves in the first place. After I dried her hair I tied it back and cut off a 9-inch ponytail. I placed the ponytail of the female I met at the bar into a Ziploc bag which I labeled in red,
“December: VIOLET”
Violet’s remains were splattered all over the not-so-shiny-anymore plastic placed over the tiled floor of my back den. It’s an easy cleanup, just a fucking messy one. I preserved some of her blood which i used for cooking and baking. My parents used to have jars of cows blood in the fridge when I was growing up during the good seasons on the farm. I grew up with blood in my meals longer than I was killing for them.
To whom it may concern..
No amount of the most expensive tenderloin or cheapest city pizza could ever satisfy me the way I want it to. I go to bed shivering from the hunger and craving for something that I know is too fucked up for anyone to understand. I'm intrigued and utterly obsessed with the flavor of human flesh. In other words,
I’m a cannibal.
Being organized is a key trait to have in order to successfully live the lifestyle I do. My alarm is set for 05:30 which I snooze until 05:48. I grew up in Finland, far from here. I abandoned my family when my right ring finger and pinky finger were both cut off in a gardening accident and when my parents started going manic. I was accustomed to early schedules and daily routines. Showered by 06:05, I have a plate of 2 eggs with a side of hash I make from last night's scraps and trimmings along with raspberry jam and fresh bread. I wash my meal down with one demitasse of espresso. Before I leave my apartment I make sure to spend a good 5 minutes in the mirror making sure i’m living up to my “killer good looks”. I see if my tie matches my socks, make sure my gloves are on and clean, and spray my Tom Ford cologne so it lingers on my suit. I seek out my prey through scent which helps cater to my preferences of taste, so I might as well smell good for the allure. I am out the door by 06:45.
Morning thoughts.
I couldn’t stomach the thought of being anywhere else. It was the best decision I could make for myself once I was 16 and old enough to flee the farm and start a new life. People watching happens to be my favorite hobby, and living in the city was good for that. I would carefully mind my surroundings walking to work all while putting on my noise-cancelling headphones. Men who smelled of smoke and coffee beans poured out of local coffee shops and into office buildings. As I would clench on my cigarettes resting between my lips, my eyes saw through everything; everyone. Sometimes people who brushed by me on the sidewalk would smell so good, my cravings would become unbearable but I knew I had to watch myself. That’s why I started smoking in the first place. My addiction would usually subside until my 2 A.M. anxiety woke me up and the craving for nicotine would settle in my mind. Pulpy newspapers sat on empty benches in the derelict part of the city. This reminded me that each block has their bums and every bum has their stories. I just didn't want to live miserably enough to tell mine.
The Neighbor.
II
Fortunately, she was indeed a size 8. Lyza lives across the hall from me and is incredibly as hungry as I am, if not more. I know just about every cannibal in our building. Lyza and I met at a CA meeting (cannibals anonymous) a couple of years back. She is someone I enjoy doing business with but I eat my meals alone. She’s just so messy. To be absolutely honest, I could never fully remember how it all went down, that night I tried my first bite of human flesh. I was talking to this one meal Shayna for a couple of nights before we broke things off (which was not mutual by the way). We headed to the clubs after a night of dancing. Shayna and I went back to my place for the night but she was making me very irritable, very uneasy. When I took off my gloves for the first time in front of her she saw my fingers were both missing and turned away. She laughed. What happened after that was a blur I can't seem to remember. I woke up the following morning in an unfamiliar bed with dried blood flaking under my fingernails and a metallic taste buzzing on my tongue. Trying to gather my thoughts, I noticed that where I was seemed familiar but I couldn't figure out why. I could hear the shower water running from the opposite side of the bathroom door so I knew I was not alone.
It got messy.
I stumbled out of bed and stood there at the bathroom door. The doorknob had been covered in blood, and I knew it couldn’t be good. I pushed open the cracked door and saw blood smeared all over the marble countertop sink like raspberry jam on my morning toast. I carefully stepped around the crime scene. But wait. The shower was still running. I got so distracted I almost forgot to check behind the curtain, and lying there was a woman mangled in the bathtub. Suddenly my hands were shaking and I was frozen. These thing's normally don't bother me but I knew this wasn't my work because I for one do not enjoy eating in a dirty kitchen if you catch my drift. Not to mention, her missing body parts weren't my taste, I am too particular. I took a harder look at her face or what was left of it and I was left in shock with who I found.
It was Shayna.
The steam from the shower left the mirror fogged and I couldn’t see my face but I could feel sweat beading down from my forehead. I left the water running and quickly gathered my belongings to leave, but noticed an unfamiliar sound coming from the hallway. It was my neighbor Lyza, tearing away at Shayna’s missing calf. I could tell Lyza was solely performing this for the meal because Shayna wasn’t a natural blonde and therefore she was useless to Liza's wig store. The whole thing tripped me out so bad I didn’t talk to her or go to any CA meetings for a month. I ignored her until I couldn’t anymore. I mean avoiding your neighbor is near impossible when you’re 10 feet across the hall from them.
It doesn’t make sense.
It was hard kissing girls trying not to bite their tongues off. I suppose that was why I could never settle down, apart from being a cannibal I also lack the emotional intelligence to sincerely care about half of the human beings I come in contact with. I recall this one woman I tried taking out for dinner. She was attractive but a bit too talkative. The second her fork hit the plate, words came pouring out of her mouth and her tongue danced on her teeth. All I could do at this point was stare at her mouth. All I wanted was to feel her tongue slide down my throat like the escargot on her plate had. I can barely hold a girl's hand without them looking at me like I’m a fucking monster or something. For all one knows it isn’t just my hand that turns them off. Maybe women can smell how foul I really am beneath all this cologne. Every other Friday night after work, I head downtown to hit the bars with the boys looking for women to take home. I carefully observe the crowded dive bar while my friends search for their next one-night stand and I search for my next meal. My menu of candidates tends to be quite small. I spot a few capable options but damn. I could surely smell how foul all the women who suppress their appetites key-bumping coke were. But if I take a meal back to my place with a house key, it was one less personal belonging being tracked back to a missing body. Mind you; I still have good taste.
Heavy muscled animals produce more meat and less fat.
Three drinks in, my eyes caught the best looking girl I had seen all night. She looked so worthy. Good enough to eat, literally. The thought of sinking my teeth into her skin made the hair on my neck stand as tall as her legs which were complemented by silver stilettos and a silky violet skirt. Violet was my favorite color. It signified power and the future, which I was hoping to overcome hers before the sun would rise. I took my time to admire her muscle-built figure. She was drinking a dirty martini which was paid for by the eagerly persistent gentleman at the other end of the bar. If he tries any harder to take what I've been waiting for maybe I'd save some room for dessert. I wrapped my knuckles around my sweating glass and took one more shot before going in for the kill.
Slow and steady wins the race
I comb my sleek black hair back with my fingers as my stomach groans of hunger and anticipation on meeting my long deserved meal. Her emerald eyes glisten in the bar lights which are a dimmed sapphire and royal red. She catches me looking at her and I crack a crooked smile which reveals my pearly canines, perfect for gripping on skin and bone. Walking swiftly towards her, I begin to make conversation. Five minutes into picking her brains, I notice the other man has left, leaving behind a decent tip, and a lingering scent of sweet blood, which made me wonder if Lyza ate today. She’d probably get good use out of these stilettos and by the looks of the hair on this woman's head, Lyza could probably make a wig from it. My friends are eyeing me and understand I’ve hit the jackpot with this girl. I know they wanted her just as badly as I did, but I wanted her for different reasons.
Reasons they could never understand.
She seems to feel comfortable enough to trace her fingertips along my suit pants, which have been held up by my silver belt buckle since the morning. She laughs at my jokes and willingly enough, I lean in to whisper a faint request. Peeking at my wristwatch, reading 01:51 I realize it's almost time for a smoke break. I ask if she’d want to spend the night at my place. With these words, I gazed back at my friends and they already knew I wasn’t going to be alone for the night. We plan on heading back to my apartment and in the midst of all the hunger and anticipation, I forgot one of my most important rules while taking home prey. Never let your meal leave any personal belongings behind.
New York: Where the weak are killed and eaten.
III
I guess it isn’t really about what you do, but whom you do it for. The process of the work you do is critical don't get me wrong. But the purpose drives the will to live. My purpose is to eat, and what I eat reflects the lifestyle I crave. I can pick up hobbies left and right to distract me from my desires but when I am stuck in bed sweating and shaking from withdrawal it’s like telling a heroin addict not to use the needle on their nightstand. I need something more exhilarating, something more purposeful. I need a new process, a new lifestyle. I enjoy possessing the skills to rip someone's lungs out just as much as I like consuming them afterward. The city is overflowing with life, yet I still feel so empty. Maybe that's why I enjoy filling my organs with other people’s insides. I know Lyza needs the hair, and I need the meals but there has to be a more efficient way to complete all of this work. After all, I do this for myself. Cannibals are known to be selfish, and my lifestyle has only made that trait of mine more profound.
Purpose, Process, Repeat.
I woke up with both of my hands in the form of two fists, shaking with rage. I am content on the inside but physically it seems that I always want more. I eat people for a living, yes but sometimes I just don’t feel like flossing chunks of women out of my teeth. But this is just the life I was born into and there is no coming back from the events that have led me here. I need a sense of belonging where I can work in peace with myself without feeling like I am the monster everyone else sees me as. I need to get out of my head, so I hop out of bed and make my way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and open my blinds to soak up the morning sun. Something was off though and it wasn’t the espresso. I felt nauseous almost. I guess her organs aren’t playing nicely with mine as I hear my stomach tossing her body around still from the night before. I waste no more time at the window and turn away from the city’s chaos as I have my own turmoil going on inside of me. The bathroom was only two doors down but it felt out of reach so I go to the kitchen instead and plop my head into the sink waiting for the misery to make its way out of my body. I feel the taste of bile at the back of my throat bubble and my saliva pours into the pockets of my cheeks. I actually wanted to throw up thats how uncomfortable she was making me feel.
I turn on the sink and let the cold water run across my face just in time for me to throw up straight into the drain.
Only, it wasn’t straight..into..the drain.
Holy shit. I have never been so disgusted with the amount of vomit spewed all over my kitchen. It felt as if I was reliving my childhood when I was sick with food poisoning for a week. My mother took care of me on her own while my father tended to the farm. My countertops were covered in blood and parts of Violet that I don’t even recall consuming. I was sweating profusely and it definitely felt like I was having food poisoning again. I let my stomach settle and all the sudden I had to vomit again. What felt like hours were only minutes passing by and when I had nothing left inside of me I collapsed lifelessly to the floor. The cold tiles cooled down my body and I ended up laying long enough to fall asleep. I woke up to the sound of my doorbell and the smell of rotting flesh lingering in the air. There was no way I would be letting anyone in here under these conditions. It was in my best interest to pretend nobody was home and even if I wanted someone to hear me cry for help they couldn’t. I couldn’t even think about cleaning all I wanted to do was take a shower. I pick my body up and instantly feel my head throbbing so I head for the medicine cabinet to grab some aspirin. I reach for the remote that controls the curtains and shut them so I was in nothing but darkness. I didn’t want to see anything it was bad enough I could smell.
The doorbell rings, again.
I check the peephole this time and it was my neighbor. Fuck. I was supposed to be meeting her for our weekly exchange. I know business is business but I was nowhere near ready to deliver. I crack open my apartment door and tell her i’m not ready right now and to come back later tonight but she wasn’t crazy about rescheduling our meeting. She noticed in my voice I wasn’t feeling well and demanded on coming in to help but I refused. I felt too dizzy and nauseous to argue and even though I warned her about coming inside she insisted. Being as messy as she is, Lyza didn’t even flinch at the sight of my kitchen when she flicked on the lights. She shrugged her shoulders, sighed, and walked me to my bedroom while she drew a bath for me. I felt like a child again, this was all too nostalgic for me I haven’t been taken care of since then.
