Obsessive Cannibalism Disorder

Trent always hungered for something more. Now that he was approaching thirty, it became clear that something needed to change. He’d lived in the same house his entire life, a big rural farmhouse with weather-worn siding and a roof adorned with moss and rotted cavities. His parents had moved out, unable to take care of the money hole in their elder years, leaving Trent alone. Trent should have been perfectly capable of taking care of the house, as an able-bodied 29-year-old man, but no such home improvements were ever made.

Instead, Trent had intentions of improving himself. He was positive that God would lead him down the right path. He would get out of Bonesaw, Indiana, no matter what it took. He would meet people, become an impressive chef, leave his line cook job at the diner behind, and move to the city. He was a good Christian man with good intentions. Unfortunately, obsession proved to be a much stronger force than intention.

Perhaps it had started with the cooking class Trent took in the city. The instructor, a well-fed woman with years of experience taste-testing her own creations, was teaching the class how to prepare fine cuts of meat for a pork tenderloin dish. However, the pig she brought out did not impress Trent in the slightest. The pig was smaller than expected, almost skinny. After being long dead and frozen, the pig barely resembled the creature it once was. Trent thought about this as he watched the instructor’s expert hands demonstrate the correct butchering method to get to the tenderloin. The tenderloin itself was such a small piece of meat that it seemed like a waste. Trent wasn’t used to these sophisticated types of cuisine and would often opt for the fattier, more flavorful cuts of meat. Something so small and bland wouldn’t satisfy him.

The chef was still spouting instructions, but Trent couldn’t bring himself to listen. Her words dissipated like a fine mist past Trent’s ears as he examined the woman’s visage. Her face was a perfect circle, with fat completely enveloping what was once a neck. Her features were squashed between these meaty paddings, with heavy cheeks framing her upturned nose and pulling the corners of her mouth down into a permanent frown. Despite the rather cold temperature of the room, she was sweating profusely, with perspiration gleaming on her blushed skin. Without warning, a thought pierced through Trent’s brain, as fast and deadly as a 9mm bullet: She looks more like a pig than the carcass does.

Trent felt a pang of hunger. When was the last time he ate? He couldn’t remember, and he didn’t care as his thoughts spiraled further into his mind’s darkest crevices. How would one go about butchering a human body? What was the finest cut? The most flavorful? Saliva invaded Trent’s mouth like a flash flood. He swallowed thickly, eyes darting from side to side as if someone might telepathically be reading his thoughts.

Luckily, no one seemed to be a psychic. Everyone else was intently watching as a student volunteer went up to try cutting as instructed. Trent tried to focus. Think normal, non-cannibalistic thoughts. His attempts would be in vain, as the inexperienced student managed to slice through her own finger. The student yelped in surprise as blood immediately gushed from the wound, trickling ever so tantalizingly down the side of her hand and onto the raw tenderloin below.

People in the kitchen rushed to help. Trent stood completely still. The previously unappealing cut of meat suddenly seemed far more appetizing thanks to its new garnish. As the girl was rushed to receive a bandage, and the contaminated meat was promptly disposed of, Trent could only think of the taste of fresh human blood and flesh.

The thoughts didn’t stop there. Daily, Trent was plagued with cannibalistic fantasies. At the diner, Trent had to fight off the insatiable urge to cut his coworker Diane into nugget-size chunks and put her in the fryer. At the lake with his friends, the wafting aroma of grilled burgers and hot dogs failed to distract Trent from the smell of human skin, oiled up and baking in the summer sun. No matter how much food he ate, he would never be satisfied. Each day, he would gorge himself in an attempt to quell the ever-present hunger that clawed at his insides and slithered through his brain. No matter how much he stuffed himself, he wasn’t ever satiated. He couldn’t keep the food down either. As if his body was rejecting it forcibly, he would projectile vomit a Niagara Falls of half-digested food chunks and stomach juice. Trent was sick, and the only cure was cannibalism.

Now the cure stood right in front of him, alive, young, and just ripe for the taking. The knock at the door had been a complete surprise, as Trent never had visitors. He opened the door to reveal a woman. She was about Trent’s age, maybe younger, with tan skin, dyed blonde hair, and smudged eyeliner encircling her worry-stricken eyes. She tried to fix her wind-tangled hair, but it did nothing to fix her disheveled appearance.

“Hi, um, sorry to bother you…” she fidgeted as she spoke, and she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “My car broke down and my phone is dead, so I didn’t know what to do…”

“Ah, you need my phone to call your family, or -”

“A tow truck. I need to call a tow truck.”

Trent stepped aside and gestured for her to come in. Her smudged raccoon eyes squinted with confusion.

“Why don’t you come inside while you wait for that truck? This sure is a nasty heat wave we’re having.”

The girl couldn’t deny this, as more beads of sweat clung to her brow. Still, she hesitated.

“Alright, thanks.”

Trent swiftly closed the door behind the girl and put on his warmest smile.

“Sit anywhere you’d like. Would you like anything to drink?”

The girl’s conflicted eyes darted across the room, taking in the water-damaged walls and dated furniture. Her eyes rested on the taxidermied elk head mounted above the fireplace. It’s enormous and majestic, yet only a fraction of the beautiful animal it once was. Now it is inanimate, just another piece of antiquated decor. She swallowed heavily.

“No, I’m good.”

Trent thought this to be an odd answer, considering how dehydrated she must be from all of that sweating. Nevertheless, Trent gave her his phone. She opted to sit on the smallest chair in the room, and it creaked under her weight.

As she dialed the number for the tow company, Trent sat down near her. With a better view, he examined the girl’s body. This would be typical behavior for a lonely straight man who hungers for the delicate touch of a woman. The typical man might notice her rather large breasts or the generous curve of her hips. Trent noticed this too. He also noticed the roll of fat that spilled over the waist of her jeans as she sat, the way her thighs spread to fill the entirety of the seat cushion, and the slight pocket of fat under her chin that became visible when she looked down.

She was a perfect specimen. Not too fat as to ruin the meat’s texture, but fat enough to add just the perfect amount of flavor. Trent’s stomach assaulted him with another pang of desperate hunger. Trent had become extremely malnourished, with skin clinging to bone and any remaining muscle as if in a futile attempt to remain human rather than skeleton. He didn’t have much time left, and he felt his energy slipping away at each passing minute.

Trent was a good, God-fearing Christian, and he had never feared God more than in this moment. He had answered Trent’s prayers, providing him with the livestock he needed to survive, and now it was up to Trent to accept God’s gift. But still, Trent held back. God says that murder is wrong. Was this a test?

The girl hung up the phone and gave it back to Trent.

“They said it’ll be about forty-five minutes to get here.”

Every voice inside Trent’s head screamed in an agonizing chorus of desire. It took considerable effort to focus.

“How are you getting home? Don’t you need to call family or someone?”

Trent observed the tensing of the woman’s shoulders as “family” was mentioned.

“Can’t the tow truck just take me?” She asked with a hoarse voice.

“I don’t think they do that.”

The woman shifted uncomfortably, making the chair squeak. She avoided looking at Trent, her eyes fixed on a wall-mounted shotgun.

“I don’t have anyone. My family… we’re not on speaking terms.”

No one will come looking for her, Trent’s mind supplied. No one will miss her.

Still, he couldn’t kill another human. How could one thought turn into all of this? How could this be part of God’s plan?

“I guess I could call Bill…” The woman muttered to herself in thought.

No, she can’t call Bill. Trent had to make his decision now.

Killing may be wrong, but it was to save himself. It was a necessary kill, a part of the circle of life. Considering his circumstances, it was reasonable, right? God would forgive. God always forgives. If only he could give some sort of sign…

The woman nervously fidgeted with her necklace, untucking it from underneath the neckline of her shirt. For the first time, Trent witnessed the charm on the necklace. It was a silver pendant in the shape of an inverted pentagram. It was his sign. She was a follower of Satan, and it was his duty to enact justice upon her corrupted soul.

“Excuse me for a second, I’ll be right back,” said Trent as he got up and exited into the room behind them.

He found himself in the kitchen. His vision was starting to blur, but he knew exactly where he was going. He plucked a handle out of the knife block. It was his sharpest cleaver, made to slice through even the toughest meats like butter. It would do the job.

Trent marched out with new energy, completely different than his prior weakened stumbling. His eyes were glazed over, gleaming deep under his hooded brow. The woman didn’t have time to turn around as Trent approached from behind. He reached around her and, in one smooth motion, sliced her neck open right at the jugular.

Her head lolled back and her eyes grew wide with panic. Trent stood back to admire his work. It was a clean cut. The blood gushed out in a rapid stream, staining her once white shirt deep crimson. She tried to reach up and stop the blood, but it was no use. Trent made sure the cut was deep.

She started gargling and sputtering, choking on the heaps of blood pouring down her throat. Her eyes were desperate, pleading wordlessly. Then they went completely blank. Trent had seen this many times before, from the pigs at the old family farm, from the deer he hit on the road at night, and from that elk he shot on a hunting trip in Colorado. The life drained out of their eyes all the same. A human was no different.

With determination and the will of God on his side, Trent was able to drag the woman’s corpse to the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Part of Trent’s brain thought this whole process was useless. She’s dead, eat her now! But Trent wanted to be a cook, and no cook would eat their finest piece of meat raw.

Trent drained her remaining blood out in the bathtub. Then he began the process of washing her and removing her organs. He pulled each organ out, careful to store them all in containers. He would have so much leftover meat, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. There were so many dishes he could make now. He salivated at the thought of steak, burgers, bacon, ribs… Finally, finally, he would know what it tasted like. Trent was sure that it would be better than anything he’s ever eaten before. He decided only his famous barbecue ribs would suit the momentous occasion.

Trent got to work cutting the ribs from the corpse, carefully trimming the fat to the optimal amount. While Trent knew the meat would be good on its own, he still rubbed the meat with a mix of paprika, chile powder, cumin, coriander, cayenne, salt, pepper, and brown sugar for the extra flavor. Then, it was time to start up the grill. The meat smelled divine as it sizzled on the grill. It had to be much better than beef or pork. Trent would finally be satisfied.

After Trent had glazed it in his special barbecue sauce and plated it, he paused. Everything had been leading up to this moment. At last, his obsessive desires would be quenched. He was so happy he could cry.

Trent picked up the rib, smearing his bloodstained hands with more sauce. Then he took the bite…

It was like nothing he’d ever eaten before. Trent’s eyes widened in shock. There was only one word that could describe it: disgusting.

He promptly vomited all over the rest of his meal.

Trent’s eyes filled with tears as he surveyed the scene before him. A nauseating shade of red newly adorned the walls, the floors, and even the ceiling. It was all over him, too. He hadn’t bothered to clean himself up before cooking. The dried blood stained his clothes, and little unidentifiable human bits covered him in a gruesome, fleshy confetti. There was a body in his bathtub. There were organs in the freezer. He killed somebody. That somebody had a family, friends, and a future – but there was no future for either of them now. His dreams of being a chef seemed so distant from what he had let himself become.

What have I done?

Trent crumpled to the floor. He let himself get consumed by obsession. He had failed the test. On his knees, Trent prayed.

God, please forgive me.

The only god present congratulated himself on a job well done.