Scott Nicholson is the author of seven books, including The Farm and
They Hunger (April, 2007). He is vice-president of the Horror Writers
Association and was a 1999 grand prize winner in the Writers of the
Future contest. His website http://www.hauntedcomputer.com contains
excerpts, writing articles, and a blog.
(originally published in the Charles Grant tribute anthology “Small Bites” 2004)
Eat me.
Kind of like in the old days, when you were dead and I was still alive.
Maybe it can never be the same, but when you’re dead, you have plenty of time to dream. So I’m dreaming, okay? What’s wrong with that? What’s the worst that can happen?
Oh.
God can show up.
Yeah, like that’ll happen. You think that bastard will show up now, since His happy little playground is nothing but a Ground Zero wasteland. That would be classic. I’d love to see the Big Guy serving himself up as loaves and fishes for the vacant-eyed, fuck-brained dead. Giving Himself to me and you. A joke of a communion that would be the last thing we ever had in common.
It ain’t happening, okay? Look, you love me and I love you, but let’s get one thing straight.
It’s over.
That first bite was sweet, and nothing has ever made me happier than seeing a string of my small intestine slapping against your cheek, then disappearing between those ever-luscious lips. For the first time in our relationship, I was actually giving instead of thinking only of my own needs. And my needs were plenty. Back then, I mean. Lately, they have gotten pretty simple.
Munch out, honey.
Eat me. It’s the least I can offer, after all you’ve had to put up with and all we’ve been through.
You ate my pain and you consumed my pathetic excuses, you swallowed my half-assed lies, you got down on your knees and begged me to forgive you when it was me who had done wrong. I twisted it all around, and every time I slipped, I blamed you for the banana peel. But that was then and this is now, as some lame pop song once said, back in that plastic, noise-overdosed reality that we gobbled like fast-food fries.
Now, you’ve got the upper hand.
Or the three fingers that are left, anyway.
I know, I know, I’ve queered the deal, I used to let you go down on me without a second thought. But things are different now, you’ve got to admit. I kept my soft places hidden, the memories and the scars and the sorrows, and I only gave you my face. Now you want it all. And I can only give so much.
Look, I said forever, everything, love, all those empty, pretty words. But I was skin deep. I kept my true meat to myself. But you’re hungry and aching.
Why should things be any different just because you’re dead and your teeth are sharp and wet and I’m on my back with my hands in the air?
You wanted me heart and soul. Go ahead, take my heart. It no longer beats and it never knew how to work anyway.
Sorry, I’ve got nothing beyond deep. No soul. But you already knew that, and it never stopped you before.
All I can offer now is all I have.
All you ever wanted.
So eat me.
(C) Scott Nicholson 2004