Thriller

Cannibal, All Too Cannibal

His red tongue battled his annoyance to pick on the string of Mortal flesh that had clung onto his teeth. It soiled his hands with blood and other oozed-out human fluids. The metal that lay beside him, drenched in crimson, shone against the bright setting sun. And he could feel the heat of the day as he caressed through the flaccid flesh with his tongue.

It was in an abandoned shack, in some remote region in the mountains, wherein he had found his shelter for his feast. He was thirty-one; a local woodcutter, who also designed houses and interiors. He wasn’t very virile in his image. He was paunchy, short and extremely socially awkward.

He stood there in the abandoned cottage, in front of a broken life-sized, filthy mirror — naked, running his fingers along the lines with shadows and, forms drew on his body when he heard a distinct rustle in the woods. This was the first time he heard it, so he panicked. There was a possibility someone was onto him. He looked through the window, he couldn’t even locate a leaf in motion.  It was getting late, so he retired. The amber lit sky was morphing into a blueish hue. He had to get back to his home. He fit the raw, half-eaten, hollow in volume, of what appeared to be — a feminine human form into a sack and drowned it in the wood residue. He carried it to a site in the woods, dumped it over half-burnt logs of firewood and set it ablaze. The bloody amber fire had washed off the blue again.

The objective validity of the categorization, that is- Good and Evil — itself serves as a testament we have failed to perceive the nuance to Human understanding and consciousness. The thought of a cannibal can make people sick to their guts or can even make some, anxious, with the premise for Subjective Morality discourse it establishes. Though, this categorization of cannibals into its Evil paradigm washes off the human fringe to it.

A phenomenon is manifested, and the doctrines on which the society is based on — judge its validity from the comfort of a cushion. The variables in the phenomenon’s instance, are categorically identified, and it says the identity to be constant. The assumption that those doctrines define the objectivity of what and how this phenomenon of Life can be. We seek to understand the semblance of perceiving. And maybe this is my illusion of viewing the illusion of understanding. This is the property of thought that has made it into rhetoric.

But to identify oneself with the guilt, the lonesomeness, the helplessness that a cannibal could feel, is still dangerous because this incumbent gluttony for human flesh violates the fundamental postulate of the concept of society and doesn’t give you a way to cope with it. Given that the existence is the resolution in question. Acknowledged, that we have neglected to put a pin on the zillions of permutations and combinations which could go into establishing psychological triggers and associations of tangible objects with it, we must allow for a phenomena that finds a fringe — in philosophy, in identity, in sexual and gender orientation, in art, in literature, and also in food.

He was fourteen then. His uncle used to buy him candies, not the regular ones, but the ones carved out in the forms and textures of animals, fruits and such. He used to trace the tip of his tongue along the lines and bumps which featured over those wobblies gelatin candies. He loved it. He would pick, and poke, and squish them. His tongue saw patterns in places the others couldn’t see. He would play for hours with the plastic dough. He would eat out his pencils. He was often scolded for chewing on mud, for licking at stationery and furniture. His classmates used to tease him, which had made him awkward and occasionally violent. He was a stranger. He had become an outsider.

He was twenty-eight then. Survival had found him a position in a politically motivated local mafia. His job was to pick up whatever dead bodies they disposed of in the woods and to burn the bodies to dust. This is when a cannibal was born. This was his first. A heavy-duty truck had thrown off a partially mutilated dead girl at him and had dissolved into the distance. He was alone and the blood-bathed sight had made the balance in his soul jarringly discordant. He couldn’t look. He threw up a little. He seemed sick. He looked away. He put himself together. And looked back again at the forms that lay before him. His sickness had disappeared.

Those petite rose curvaceous chiselled cadaverous contours that met his eyes had resurrected the vices whose eyes, he had, all his life, shied away from. This raw impulse had eaten out his inhibitions. He steadily closed in. He tore her clothes in perfect rhythm and put his white, dotted tongue on her fresh cold skin. He moved in to tear her lip with his bare teeth, that he felt a warm gust of life push him back. The girl was alive. She was missing the ends of all her limbs, but barely dead. She wasn’t conscious, but her pale, fleshy abdomen had thrust hard into the air with every rhythmic pulse, unhurt. It seemed as if her soul was flickering and her limbless torso couldn’t even battle. The woodcutter pressed against the beating torso and struck it to the ground. This episode intrigued him. He pressed harder. He could feel her shivering body. It was music to him. He licked off the sweat and blood that dressed her chest. It aroused him. He pressed deeper and then a stream of warm blood gushed through her thick skin, out of her living body and hit his face. He was inside her and then I looked away.

He is thirty-one now. Three years have passed. Nobody knows of his orientation yet. But he does what it requires of him. He never fails. And just like always, he had partially feasted on the corpse (he liked the thighs most) and had set it ablaze.

He was sitting there in the faded evening, aware of the string of the Human flesh in his mouth, looking into the fire he had just made. He was melancholic. There was something on his mind. And then he heard the rustle in the woods, again. He hurriedly got up to check. His sight had turned silent. His paranoia was real. He saw a string of local people and some familiar faces, and all of them were clothed in the rage. The mafia was cleansing its loose ends. It flashed before his still vision that all the murders which the mafia carried out in the last three years could now be bailed on him, that he was the villain, that he was evil. His secret was out. He couldn’t move. He could see the dance of the mellow amber fire that the crowd was bringing. His life flashed before him. He wanted to build a big house, somewhere far away from that mountain. He wanted a family. But he was afraid of himself. He remembered the girl. He hadn’t intended to kill her. And then consumed in the silence of his pounding heart, he took out his pale blue tongue and drew in a shivering breath. Someone threw him into the fire he himself made. And then again, I looked away.

Written by:- Puru Priyam

5/5 (5 Reviews)
Show More

Leave a Reply

avatar

Check Also

Close
Back to top button

We use cookies to give you the best online experience. By agreeing you accept the use of cookies in accordance with our cookie policy.

Close

Adblock Detected

Please consider supporting us by disabling your ad blocker