I was nine.
The rabbit wasn't mine.
But I took it anyway.
Skinned it behind the house.
Fur peeled like wet paper. Blood smelled sweet.
It sizzled. I ate.
She cried for days.
I never told her.
———————
They didn't question much when I said I wanted to cook alone.
Carol grinned, threw her coat over the couch. "Fine, but if it's bad, we're ordering takeout."
Tim leaned on the doorway for a moment. His eyes flicked to the kitchen, curious, before he turned back to Carol. "He's never let us cook with him. Kinda rude."
I laughed from inside, knife in hand. "You ruin the mystery if you see the mess."
The mess.
The boy's body was still warm. I had made sure of that.
I laid him on the counter, chest down, arms splayed like a doll too loved. His skin was soft and marked with faint bruises from the chloroform—nothing too brutal. I didn't like it brutal. It lost the flavor.
The first cut always felt like silk parting. I went in clean—along the spine, just enough to reach the backstraps. He had a beautiful anatomy. Ribs, small but perfectly shaped. The lungs had deflated already. I didn't need them.
What I needed was the meat. Lean, young, and honest.
I hummed while peeling off the skin, methodical. It came off smoother than usual. My hands were stained red, fingers slick, but I kept wiping them on the cloth by the sink. There's a rhythm to it, you know. Slice. Lift. Separate. Clean.
The kidneys were no good. He had cried too much.
But the thighs? Wonderful. A bit of fat, which meant they'd roast better. I imagined the way Tim would bite into them. He always liked dark meat.
Carol called out from the living room, "You need salt?"
"Already added it," I said, smiling as I carved deeper into the child's leg. "Everything's under control."