Delectable

One

His heart was beating so fast. He tried to ignore the intrusive thought, but, with each careful slice of the onion, the inclination to run the smooth blade along his arm, to allow it admission through already, thickly, scarred skin, grew alarmingly prevalent over his intent on preparing dinner. He told himself to keep going, that the feeling would pass, even as the urge grew stronger; even when the shaking set in, his body vibrating with the fear that he was a rapid heartbeat away from relapsing. He'd been doing so good.

Perhaps he could have fought against his body's demand for pain, could have persevered through, but the disappointment, the guilt, he felt overwhelmed him, sending his mind spiraling into a state of shame and panic, which in turn only strengthened the morbid desire. Maybe this time he'd actually end himself.

The thought made him stop what he was doing, and he chucked the knife from himself with a jolt. No. No, he thought, the shaking growing worse. He began to back away, shaking his head, until his back hit the wall. He slid down the mottled barrier, quivering uncontrollably. His breathing grew harsh, his mouth open as his head shook, staring at the tiled floor.

No, no no no, oh god, no. He threw his hands up, clutching at his temples, his face scrunching in frantic frustration. He could already feel the tears burning behind his eyelids. And then his eyes shot open, their gaze lifting to the island counter where his cell phone sat with a sharp intake of breath.

A second passed, a brief moment of calm, before he pushed himself from the wall, scrambling up to grab the device, almost falling in the process, before collapsing back down against it. His eyes were wide, focused, as his shaking hands fought to dial the number he hadn't before realized he'd remembered by heart. As soon as he punched in the last number he brought the phone to his ear, his eyes wildly scanning the hazy room before him, everything suddenly feeling foreign and fabricated.

Oh god, please, please, he mouthed as he listened to the almost teasing sound of the ringer on the other end. His eyes fell shut as he made an honest attempt to calm himself; please. He swallowed, the shaking not letting up one bit, his chest rising and falling as if he had been running a marathon. But an answer never came, sending his mind reeling into further dread. He had always been alone, and this painfully confirmed it. There was no salvation to be found tonight.

For the life of him, he couldn't control the insufferable trembling, nor the anxious fear of taking his life coiling within his stomach that threatened to push its way up his esophagus in the form of vomit. His eyes closed tightly as he slammed his head back against the wall, boiling with frustration and self-loathing. He had to get a grip, somehow. His thoughts searched every corner of his mind, even the carefully hidden ones, trying to come up with a solution, until they reached a particularly demented area he thought he had locked away long ago.

Even with gelatinous legs, he fought with all his strength to stand, finding resolve where he thought he had none. This wasn't the time for a suicide attempt, nor the time for mindless self-harm. This was the time for relinquishing his demons in a different way, a more tasteful method.

He moved purposefully through this trashed home in the guise of well-kept organization until he reached his computer, opening up an anonymous browser. He had downloaded it in an attempt to become a sadist rather than a masochist, being of the rather pathetic kind. Although he had slashed himself multiple times, each was an exertion that caused debilitating alarm. Over time, after seeking help, which was dawning on him was useless, it had become too much of a struggle. Though he did crave the searing sting of metal through his flesh.

Clicking through vice and copulation offers, he came to a section that he frequented. But this time it was to no avail, he couldn't stop his mind from racing through different ways he could off himself. It was a fantasy of his to be murdered, as he couldn't bring himself to take his own life. Naturally, but it was humiliating that he didn't have the strength to do it himself.

With further searching he came to a bulletin board, advertisements on display for those wishing to partake in heinous acts. There was what he was looking for, people claiming they wanted existential release, others who swore they wished to aid them. It was his godsend. He opened up a post from a user who was looking for someone willing for him to eat them. A cannibal.

He stared at it. There was something abnormally poetic about it. Something beautiful about going that way. It was something he wouldn't have thought up himself, and in that moment he was grateful for having found it. To be eaten, alive or otherwise, was to be revered. He needed to feel wanted.

There was a sure eagerness as he clicked the email link, which took him to an inbox, where he typed quickly, though tried not to make any errors: I need your offer. I want to die. I need to know I'll be enjoyed. I need release by your desire to consume me.

He clicked send and waited with suffocating, bated breath. The user's name was Marrow, and it he needed him to be online. Desperately. And after a brief pause his waiting was not in vain, as Marrow responded: You are the first to bite. I will accept your request. I will send you my address, once you provide me with your number.

He was lucky that he had a burner number ready, used in the past for sending torture requests to a red room. It only took a moment for him to type in the number and send it over. A few seconds later he got a message: 589 Greenwood Ave. Come now. We shall discuss over dinner.

The man's nervous energy permeated the atmosphere like a thick cloud, to the point of it becoming somewhat stifling. Marrow had planned the for the meeting, over a well cooked meal, with the intention of relieving the man of any stress that might have encumbered him on the drive there, but it seemed to have little effect. Perhaps that would have been too easy, even with the calming ambiance he had worked so hard to provide. He was in no way a patriarch of ease, but he did have a calm, collected composure that he hope would eliminate any discomfort.

He took a careful bite of his food, noting the now foreign taste of the meat he was consuming; he hadn't had pork in over a decade. It was nauseating. He had refrained from using human meat for the meal, simply because he couldn't bring himself to feed it to the man. The thought of forcing him to partake in the act of cannibalism wasn't an elegant one, especially when he needed the nutrients it provided coursing through his system. You eat the field through means of eating the cattle.

After a decent amount of chewing he swallowed thickly, feeling his own form of disquiet in response to the man's, of whom he needed to ask, "May I ask your name?"

The man looked up from his plate, from which he had been eating hungrily, having just then realized how starving he was. He cleared his throat, "Caden."

Marrow had taken another bite, chewing as he stared at Caden emotionless. He swallowed slowly, waiting a heartbeat before responding, "Caden. Why is it that you wish to die?"

Caden had many reasons, but, while put on the spot, he couldn't string any of them together. Without a solid grasp on exactly why he was there, he simply stated, "I can't withstand my decaying mind."

Marrow narrowed his eyes. Corrosion of the psyche was something he had endured for a lifetime. He hardly found that as an excuse. This man, Caden, it seemed he was weak. And therefore he wouldn't make such a hardy meal. Yet, he remained hold of his appetite, even as the weak topic plunged them into a heavy silence. Save for the soft music playing in the background. Without it, the lack of conversation would have been deafening.

Caden had been surprised that the home was so welcoming, so put-together and proper. That there was a warmth to it. He had somewhat expected a shabby lowlife to meet him at the door, not a prim man with high esteem. He wondered who he was, was curious about it, even if that wasn't entirely appropriate when he was planning on being immediately massacred. But he couldn't help asking, "How long have you be a- a..."

Marrow looked at him sharply, having no patience for stuttering, "How long have I been a consumer of human meat?"

He had found a delicate way of saying it in which Caden couldn't find, and for that, he was grateful. He set his fork down and placed his hands in his lap, nodding. He was feeling a bit less jittery now that he had eaten, and had someone to distract him for his racing thoughts. Now that he had an out from his insufferable existence.

The older man took a sip of his bright rouge wine before responding, "A little over a decade."

Caden raised his eyebrows; that was a severely long time. He was astonished, and it showed in his automatic reply, "You've asked that many people?"

Marrow's hospitality was wearing thin, but he indulged his guest, "Yes, I have. You would be surprised by how many people are willing to be eaten."

Caden nodded to show he was in fact listening, not wanting to come across as idle. He drew into himself as he posed another question, feeling a bit nervous, "Have you asked them all for dinner?"

The question threw Marrow a bit off guard, but he kept his composure, "I do not. I normally kill them right away."

Caden was taken aback. Well, at least he felt special. Though, he had to know, "Why ask me?"

The cannibal swiped his tongue along his lower lip, trying to decide if he wanted to be honest, "I found your message eloquent. Not many respond with such riveting words. Your wish to be 'enjoyed', your willingness to be 'consumed', to take part in my 'desire'. It inspired me."

A blush creeped up onto Caden's cheeks. He didn't know why he cared so much that the other man found him so unique, that he was being catered to, but it was flattering. It forced him to take back up his fork and take another bite of the succulent, well-seasoned, meat. It made him realize, "Is this from your last victim?"

Marrow shook his head lightly, downing the rest of his wine, "This is sliced ham. I save it for visitors."

Caden lifted his head with an, "Ah." He now took a sip of his wine, hoping it would ease the pain of death. Speaking of, "How are you going to kill me?"

The elder smirked now, finally showing some form of humanity in his features, "Slowly."

Almost choking on his wine, he set the glass down, "Are you going to drug me?"

The calm and collected man shook his head, a strange expression on his face, "I would like to preserve you. Take from you while you are still living."

Again, Caden thought, why me? He wasn't sure he wanted to live any longer than was necessary, "That's not what I was expecting."

Marrow's eyes shone with something akin to admiration, "Nor I. As I said, you inspire me."

The demure nature of the younger man had captivated Marrow, his timid yet extroverted nature. Open despite obviously having no life. The way he spoke in writing, though he wasn't as poetic in person. But Marrow could live with that. He had never wanted to keep any of his victims alive, never even had a conversation with any of them. But perhaps he was growing bored. He needed some kind of connection in his late age, and with Caden, something about him made it seem possible. It's easy to engage with someone when they already know what you are.

Once again Caden felt like blushing. He had to find a way to keep his body from flushing at the slightest of compliments. But he was hardly one to ever receive any. He felt like agreeing, but, "I can't go back home. I can't live with that. Not when I made this decision. I can't bear to be there any longer. I may just kill myself."

Marrow chuckled, "You'll be staying with me."

The thought of living with a stranger was daunting, but he had no other option. He already knew he would accept, because he did say in his message that he wanted to be enjoyed, and enjoyment came in relishing what one wanted. And it seemed this man wanted him. So he said, "Ok. I will stay with you until you have consumed every part of me."

Marrow eyed him hungrily, encouraged by the wording, how it could be used in other context. Although he was asexual, the way Caden spoke made him stir with an arousal that felt like warm tea in his stomach. He purred, "Good." He wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood, "Now come with me, I wish to have my first taste."

Cold anxiety swept through Caden as he followed the dapper man into the kitchen, unsure as to what to expect. He wondered in honest curiosity what Marrow wished to take from him, exactly what he wanted to eat. He glanced around the modern kitchen, the stainless steel counters. He came to a stop alongside Marrow, begging the question, "What part of me do you want?"

Marrow was eager, though he didn't show much of his enthusiasm as he turned to face Caden, his expression unreadable for the most part. He smirked, he wanted all of him, but for now, "I was thinking I'd like a kidney."

Caden paled, an icy rush of anxious euphoria riddling his bones, seeping into the marrow. Fitting for the man in front of him. He wondered if that was even his real name, most likely not. This was what he wanted, the pain; the company as he endured it. The fact that it wasn't by his own hand, the notion that he wouldn't be alone in death, no matter how slow. But he wasn't entirely sure he could handle the torture of being cut open to his viscera. He felt like tapping his fingers on the counter but needed it as sterile as possible; he knew the answer to the question he was going to ask, "How do you plan on doing that?"

A puff of laughter jolted through Marrow's chest, "By performing surgery, of course."