Bon Appétit

Content warning: Themes or references to cannibalism and mental illness. Reader discretion is advised.

Billy had been my next-door neighbor since we were in the Fourth Grade. We grew up together. No, we weren't school sweethearts by any stretch of the imagination–-more like lifelong acquaintances.

Even back then, he struck me as rather... peculiar. Billy had disturbing pink eyes that looked so creepy, you would swear they were fake. And he was always twitchy. I remember him being so nervously high-strung that he'd constantly bite his fingernails - then swallow the nails. When frustrated, he'd occasionally pull out handfuls of his own white hair. 

I pitied Billy and often found myself in the unthankful position of defending him against the other children. They'd ask me, "Why do you keep sticking up for him, Jenny? Can’t you see he’s a freak? Are you two in love or something?" 

But it was my nature to defend the defenseless. Plus, he was my next-door neighbor—in my book, that counted for something. I think my actions inadvertently gave Billy a crush on me. But if truth be told, I was almost as repulsed by him as everyone else. But even then, I wouldn’t dream of throwing Billy under the bus simply because of his physical appearance or odd behavior. That’s not who I am. Besides, when it comes down to it, aren’t we all odd in our own peculiar way? So, sue me for being empathic.

In high school class, he had an unpleasant habit of picking his nose... then ate his own boogers when he thought no one was looking. 

A few months after we began attending Berkeley College, Billy was crying in agony from severe stomach cramps. I’m not judging, but I figured his school diet of boogers might have finally taken a toll.

The ambulance rushed Billy to Zuckerberg San Francisco Hospital where, unbeknownst to me, they removed a six-pound hairball that had been blocking his digestive tract. Turns out he had been eating his own hair, as well.  Billy was diagnosed with autosarcophagy a form of cannibalism that involved the practice of eating oneself.

Billy was assigned psychiatric appointments, ordered to attend anonymous group meetings for people with eating disorders, and was prescribed oxycodone for the pain.

In the end, I wish I had known the extent of his eating and mental disorder - before I accepted his dinner invitation. 

 ***

Billy's parents were away for the weekend. Their white Siamese cat, Isis, was the only other creature roaming the house.    

Late afternoon, I entered the house's open front door and met Billy sitting in a wheeled office chair at the dining room table. The table was adorned with fake lighted candles on a festive green tablecloth that reached down to the floor. The enticing aroma of broiled beef and fresh vegetables filled the air. Two bowls of Caesar salad were in front of us. Without ever leaving the comfort of his wheeled office chair, Billy poured us two glasses of White Zinfandel wine. He then lifted the metal cover from the food platter with great flourish. I ogled the large piece of meat (five pounds, at least!) sitting in the center of the tray, slathered in brown gravy and sautéed mushrooms. 

"I'm forever grateful," Billy said, "for your unflinching support for me over the years when it seemed no one else gave a crap. I felt that cooking this special meal was the least I could do. I made it especially for you, Jenny."

Using a large electric carving knife, he easily cut two thick slices and placed them, with fixings, on our plates. We clinked our wine glasses together.

"Bon appétit!" 

The meat had a rubbery texture. I said, "Tastes like buffalo, only gamier and chewier."  

Billy nodded, then expertly cut his meat into bite-size pieces. He tossed a morsel high into the air and caught it in his mouth. " 'A bit of beef with fava beans and a nice Chianti. Sluurrrrrp!' " He winked at me and smiled. 

I giggled, focusing on my own plate. After finishing the meal, I swallowed some wine to wash it all down. A rubbery, buffalo-aftertaste lingered in my mouth. Billy had his elbows on the table in front of him, with both his hands supporting his chin. He was gazing at me, a smile plastered on his face.

"Billy, you keep reminding me to tell you when you're acting weird. So, stop staring."

His face was pale as a ghost and glistened with a sweaty sheen - his eyes, fixed and unblinking.  

"Billy? Are you feeling alright?" I nudged his shoulder.  

Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, Billy slid lifelessly off the chair. Only then, did I see that the lower portion of his left leg was missing. A belt was tightly fastened above the knee to act as a makeshift tourniquet. The bottom half of the empty pant leg, as well as the burgundy rug where Billy had sat, were drenched in blood. Underneath Billy's office chair, Isis' white face was stained red as it hungrily lapped up the gore. 

Mother had called the police when she heard my shrieks from next door. But I don't remember screaming. I vaguely recall Father telling me Billy was dead, having bled out from his self-inflicted mutilation. His left calf had been the dinner special for that evening. I never found out what became of his foot.  

Billy had selflessly shared himself with me in a final act of love and sacrifice. It was so intimately bonding as to feel almost sensual. I informed the doctors here at the hospital that I found myself both attracted to - and repulsed - by that notion. At times, this emotional conflict made me so anxious, that they had to forcibly strap me in bed so I couldn't harm myself or the other patients. After all these years, they’re still looking out for me and my welfare. Bless their hearts.

The nice doctors are also here to help me make healthier food choices. Too bad they can't get rid of that gamey, buffalo-aftertaste that seems to always linger in my mouth.

Isis the cat often visits me here. Her snout's still red with dried blood. She once told me that if I really wanted to leave this hospital, I just needed to find Billy's missing foot and exchange it for my freedom.

Ha! Sometimes, Isis acts as nutty as a fruitcake.