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Fiction Horror Thriller

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

November 1

Dear Patrick,

Today, I abstain.


November 2

Dear Patrick,

Yesterday I slept. I don’t know whether it was the exhaustion, relief, or because it was the only way I could switch my mind off. I didn’t have to think or feel the emptiness inside my body.

I can’t even remember if I ate. But it wasn’t just my stomach that felt empty, it was my chest, my throat, and everything but my mind. My mind is the opposite, it’s full of thoughts of satisfying my craving. I can’t write anymore. I think I’ll go back to bed.


November 3

Dear Patrick,



November 5

Dear Patrick,

Sorry, I couldn’t face writing anything the last couple of days. My hands were unsteady, my head was heavy and my eyes drooped as I stared blankly at the screen, wondering how to share my thoughts without disappointing you completely.

I’m sorry it’s come to this.


November 6

Dear Patrick,

I know you want the full story, and I owe it to you to tell it. But I feel like I’m withdrawing from some kind of drug. I’m sweating even though it’s winter and my body aches so much that I cramp every time I sit down to write. I guess the plus side is, I’ve started to eat again. Just a little, but it’s all so unsatisfying. I feel as if nothing will satiate this hunger.


November 7

Dear Patrick,

Is this what normal feels like? I was awake and out of bed before sunrise and felt alive for the first time in a week!

The bacon I treated myself to for breakfast was incredible, juicy, thick, and salty. While it was nothing like the real thing, it really filled the gap. I’m guessing the package was meant to feed a family, but I needed it all and devoured every last bite. The fatty bits were my favorite. Soft and bursting with juice inside my mouth. I even enjoyed the gristle of the skin, which most people discard. I saved these from the last few pieces and ate them all in my last mouthful, chewing for minutes on end.

When I finished my meal, I sat at the old formica table that had been my mother’s and looked around the old kitchen, taking in the terrible decor she thought was ‘just gorgeous’ when it was built. I imagined her walking around, with that shit-eating smile on her face, admiring my father’s handiwork and clucking like she’d been the one to sweat over the work. Sure, she’d been there, but she hadn’t lifted a fucking finger to glue wallpaper or tiles, she’d just opened that yapping mouth of hers to command my father to do the work for her. Well, before she talked so much that he just up and died…

Her kitchen was her pride and joy. And even with all the hate I have in my heart for that crazy ass bitch, it was mine now too.


November 9

Dear Patrick,

I’ve eaten four family packs of bacon over the past few days.

It’s not working anymore. The craving is back.


November 10

Dear Patrick,

Today I can’t get the memories to shift. They’re dancing around my head like a fucking marionette. This isn’t how I thought I’d be. I was sure I’d cope better than this. I’m a machine, a robot, a person whose self-control is enviable. But this is beyond challenging.

I have no words today. I’ll be better tomorrow, surely.


November 11

Dear Patrick,

One memory sticks more than the others, and of course, it’s of my first. Our firsts are always the most memorable. First love, first kiss, first fuck, first kill. 

My first love was my mother. I loved her with all my being. Even when she hit me for the first time.

No, I don’t have some stupid Freud theory. My mother was an actual cunt. But I didn’t realize it until around the age of 12. Before then, I loved her and thought she loved me too. Doesn’t everyone show love physically? They hold you, they choke you, they kiss you, they bite you, they touch you, they hit you. This is what love was to me; any form of physical engagement. 

I remember my best friend asking what the marks were around my ears one day. It was the first time anyone had ever asked me about the bruises or cuts on my body and I didn’t know I was supposed to lie.

My mom did it, I told him.

The reason this sticks inside my head is because it was the first time I saw someone in shock. The blood drained from his face, his mouth dropped wide open, and his eyes bulged. Deep inside, I loved this reaction, it made my heart race and I decided that although it probably wasn’t a good thing, I wanted to shock him more. So I told him what happened.

The day before, I’d woken up early and made myself breakfast. This was usually something my mother did for me, but I wanted to let her sleep in.

Unaccustomed to preparing food for myself, I handled everything like a small child, and it was when I was taking the glass bottle of milk out of the fridge while holding my cereal bowl in the other hand, that the bottle slipped, fell, and broke on the ugly floral linoleum floor.

I really don’t need to relive this shit right now, but I’d told my friend that mom had rushed into the kitchen, saw the mess I’d made on her treasured kitchen floor, and proceeded to pick up a saucepan and smash it against the side of my head. A few hits later, I fell to the floor, onto the broken milk bottle with my head feeling like it had been hit repeatedly with a fucking pot. Oh, it had.

Ugh that’s enough of that shit today. I’m done.


November 13

Dear Patrick,

Jesus, it took some time to get over telling you that story. I know you’ve heard worse, but it’s been a while since I thought about that. The fucking anger got the best of me. Shit, am I going through the five stages of grief due to my deprivation? 

Anyway, my friend told his parents, who told my school, who told the police, who told my parents. My father was fairly oblivious as always, but he did seem to try and be around more after that incident. Not enough though, she was cunning and started only hitting me in places that could be hidden.

The cops organized counseling for me which was a giant shitshow due to my mother insisting on standing directly outside the closed door listening to everything I said. So I said very little. But my eyes were open now, and I was realizing the ‘love’ she’d been showing me, was hateful. 

She may not have loved me, but she was my first love, and not only did she break my body, but she broke my heart as well.


November 16

Dear Patrick,

I went back to work today. My two-week vacation is over. It was abysmal. I sat at my asshole desk, surrounded by my asshole coworkers, and listened to that asshole phone ringing all day. 

I’d like to say it took my mind off my mission, but it didn’t. Every single person that uttered a word around me, or breathed in my general vicinity reminded me of why I had loved my life before this so much. Each movement of their mouth and facial expression was seemingly in slow motion, exaggerated and designed to fuck me off. My blood boiled and I felt helpless.


November 18

Dear Patrick,

I chipped a tile in the kitchen today. 

Every time I see it, it’s like it’s taunting me and I know she’d be punishing me right now if she were still here. Well, she’s kind of here I guess, watching me from her special place on the ledge above the fireplace. I know it sounds lovely having your mom’s remains in pride of place, but the ‘fire’ is a shitty old gas burner that splutters like an old lawnmower whenever I turn it on. Even so, she judges from her pedestal just like she did when she was alive.


November 19

Dear Patrick,

Isn’t it funny how when you’re feeling fucked up, sad, and lacking, all of your old tainted memories come back to haunt you? I don’t know if I can do this anymore.


November 20

Dear Patrick,

Today was the true test of my resolve. 

It was Ranger’s birthday, and work celebrated with a shared lunch. Every hipster and his dog is into slow-cooked barbecue meat these days and Ranger - what a fucking stupid name - has been going on about his new Weber for weeks. Blah blah, I get up at 4 am, blah blah, the meat just falls off, blah blah rub, blah blah sauce blah fucking blah.

Well, his birthday treat for us (but more himself so he could blow ass about his amazing cooking skills) was to bring in some pork ribs for his lunch contribution.

We were sitting around the lunch table when he brought them out, making a big wanky song and dance about how good they would be and how we’d never look back once we tasted them. He was saying other stuff as well, but as he got closer to the table with his tray of meat, I could only smell the incredible aroma of smoked pork and became oblivious to anything else.

The ribs looked juicy and succulent, with generous chunks of meat threatening to fall straight off the ribs. The bones even looked delicious, covered in one of his special rubs, dark red and steaming hot and it was all I could do not to drool from the corner of my mouth.

I know it’s fucking stupid, but I waited until everyone else took a rib before carefully selecting my own. I wanted the perfect meat-to-rib ratio, with a generous portion of dripping fat and not too much rub to take the original flavor from the pork. 

Conversations were happening all around me, a huge wank fest about how great they were and how it was ‘his birthday but we got all the presents’, but I didn’t partake in any of it. I was licking and chewing and sucking this magnificent meat, closing my eyes for a few seconds at a time to savor it, but trying not to look strange while doing so.

That afternoon, I saw Ranger in the parking building. He was having trouble loading his Weber into the trunk of his car. His back was to me, and it would have been so easy to knock him senseless before he knew anyone was there. But I restrained myself, and continued to my vehicle, thanking him again and smiling, my insides ripping out at the missed opportunity.


November 22

Dear Patrick,

I’ve been sick.

I’m not sure if it’s the frustration of ‘the one that got away’, or Ranger’s ribs, but the past few days have been torture on my stomach. Or maybe it’s the change of diet that’s hit me. It has been 23 days since my last taste.


November 23

Dear Patrick,

Is it fear that has stopped me from talking about this with you for so long? I know you won’t judge me, I’m actually sure you’ll commend me, so why would I be afraid? Maybe because someone else might read this one day? Maybe because deep down I know that it’s wrong and I don’t want to make it so much more real by spelling it out?

I think the time is right. But I’ve got work today so I’ll check in again this afternoon.


November 24

Dear Patrick,

I’m not ignoring you, I’ve just been so busy, and I’m going to Ranger’s tonight for a barbecue. He’s a fucking idiot, but he does cook great ribs.

November 24



But it was just so good.


November 28

Dear Patrick,

I don’t know when I’ll get another opportunity to write to you, so I need to get it out now. I know you’ll be disappointed in me, why couldn’t I be as controlled and smart and one fucking step ahead as you? 

At the start of this month, I was sure I could hold off just long enough for them to lose interest in me and maybe start looking at someone else. It was the only reason I abstained, the only reason I restricted myself from the one thing that satisfied my insatiable cravings. 

Fuck it. I'm done now anyway. Here it is.

My mother wasn’t just my first love and my first abuser. 

She was also my first victim. My first kill. And my first true meal. 

We were sitting in her prized kitchen the day she died. She’d baked an apple crumble, which was always my favorite dessert when served with fresh cream. Even though I was 27, I had to sit like a little child and wait until it cooled down sufficiently before scooping it out of her porcelain baking dish. I hated having to wait, it seemed so stupid.

We’d been getting along okay that morning, few words were spoken by me as usual, while she went on and on about how her mother had taught her this recipe, and she didn’t know anyone who baked quite as well as she did blah blah. She bored me senseless, but I smiled and nodded as I had always done, seemingly interested in her dribble. 

She bent down to smell the crumble, and a hilarious notion overtook me and I imagined pushing the back of her head down so that her face went right into the middle of the hot baking. I laughed a little, and she looked at me like I’d lost my mind, which turned out to be a premonition in itself.

The old bitch talked more about how great she was and I couldn’t quite shake the thought of scalding her face on the super hot insides of the apple crumble. I had a feeling like butterflies in my stomach, my face blushed, and a shiver came over me. 

Gripping the table with my fingertips, I tried to get the thought out of my mind. It was almost turning me on, and the thought of that associated with my mother was sickening. But the prospect of hurting her was way too exciting.

She walked to the oven’s open door and reached inside to remove the trays for cleaning, and in a split second, I was up, standing behind her, and pushing her head and shoulders into the oven’s opening. I smashed her head against the trays once, twice, then again and again, pushing the top of her head into the back of the oven. I smashed and smashed until her body went limp in my arms.

I tried to hold her up so that she didn’t fall on the floor. There was blood all over the inside of the oven and I didn’t want to mess up any more of her treasured kitchen. Her head was still inside, but her body was leaning on the oven door, awkwardly propped up like a ventriloquist doll, resting on one of the inanimate items that she loved more than she loved me.

I laughed then. Fuck, I couldn’t help it. It was Hansel and Gretel comical. It was the most ridiculous, joyful, and sick thing I’d ever seen, and I laughed and I laughed.

It took a while to calm myself down, when I realized the oven was still on, and a sickly sweet smell was coming from inside. There was also a smokey odor and I realized that my mother’s hair was smoldering in the hot oven, and the smell of that was horrendous. But the underlying steaky scent that emanated from her glorious oven sparked my senses, so I didn’t rush to turn the oven off.

Once the blood had stopped dripping from her head, and had dried on the oven walls, I did turn it off and pulled her body from the oven, flopping the torso face up onto the table. 

Her eyes were bulging, her mouth was fixed in a shocked expression and I remembered the look of my friend when I had admitted that my mother was an evil bitch for the first time.

I stood and leaned over her body toward her face. As I got closer, the burned hair and skin smell were less overwhelming, and all I could smell was cooked meat. It smelled so good. I put my mouth to her hot cheek, and instead of a kiss, I bit. Deep and with intention. A piece of her charred cheek came off in my mouth and I didn’t even feel a second of repulsion. I chewed. Once, then twice. Then I sat down in my chair and chewed again. The 40 times she’d always told me to chew. Then I swallowed.

I sighed in satisfaction, but then my stomach gurgled, and I realized one bite would not be enough.

In my mother’s treasured kitchen, I ate my fill. Then I went to work cleaning it all up. But I saved one special piece so that she could always witness what she had created.

I’m sure the cops removed the jar containing her eyeball from the ledge when they searched my house, but I hope beyond hope that she got to see the look of shock on their faces, as they realized what it was.

I’d planned to keep something of Ranger too, after our special night. But my suspicion was right. They had been watching me. For months as it turns out. And now I’m here, awaiting trial for my culinary impulses. And you won’t even guess what’s on the prison menu today…

Pork cheek casserole.

January 15, 2024 03:09

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1 comment

Connie Garcia
11:42 Jan 21, 2024

Loved this story.


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