The Meat

by Auzin

We tried to warn him — the meat was still alive. Though withered and shrunken like a week-old roadkill bird, it could move. We saw what happened when his back was turned; the meat raised its head and swiveled around, sighting the three of us with empty eye sockets. We screamed for him to look, but it was already lying corpse-like on the table again. Ignoring our horrified protests, he took it into the bathroom with him.

Clothes on in the shower, he ate the meat in slow bites while sweat clotted his hair and dripped into his eyes. I told him he would never be the same. Shivering, he said nothing, just kept swallowing strips of flesh while his teeth chattered. All of the meat disappeared down his throat. He stumbled out of the bathroom, bright green slime already leaking from his nose and eyes. His girlfriend cried out his name and tried to touch him, but I slapped her hand away. Any physical contact with him now would mean infection. I told her to go outside and call an ambulance.

He was curled up on the kitchen floor, his whimpers sounding less human by the minute. His whole body shook and his eyes were turning black as I ransacked the cabinets. I needed oil: olive, canola, grapeseed, safflower. Standing on the countertop, I poured it all on what used to be my friend. I pleaded out loud for it not to be too late. I lit the match.

Originally published in a special zine issue of Hecate Magazine called Frankenzine, in 2021.

Auzin is a writer from the Pacific Northwest. She has published with Nowruz Journal, Rogue Agent Journal, and Agapanthus Collective. She was the Managing Editor at the now-defunct Hecate Magazine and is currently a submissions reader for The Jupiter Review. More of her work can be found at byauzin.com.