Anon

The Student Cannibal
April Knavery
One
My bed was a single, but she had stayed over every night for the last half of the week. I had not slept
well for these last nights. Partly because I woke up sweating from being in such close proximity to
another person… and partly because she did not want to sleep.
“Ugh,” she moaned. I think she played-up her arousal. My own personal porn star. “Do it
harder.”
Do what harder? She was on top, in control of the rhythm. Did... Did she want me to thrust
my pelvis up? Seemed like a lot of work to fight gravity like that. She did not ask again and looked
like she was enjoying herself so I chose to ignore her command.
And this is when the foundation of my addiction was laid down. The motion of her head
going down was so quick her hair paused before it followed. I jolted up with a yelp when she sunk her
teeth into my collar bone.
I had been given hickeys before. Well... not recently. That was more of a high school thing.
Back when I was at Rongotai my girlfriend use to slobber more than suck at the skin. It had never
been painful. Not like this.
“What the fuck?” I gasped, clasping my collarbone.
She giggled. A freak.
“Like, skin is my turn on... Biting it and all that. You taste good.”
I sunk back into the damp pillow. This is why you should not pickup South African chicks
from cheap hostels.
“I’m going to ask you to not do that again,” I stated firmly. I continued to rub the wounded
area. Presumably it would be bluish-grey by tomorrow.
“Why not?” she asked like an inquisitive child. A kinky inquisitive child. She then tensed her
vaginal walls to remind my dick where it was. “He seemed to get harder.”
“He stiffened in fear,” I joked awkwardly. It was weird to talk about my penis in third-person,
but he did have a mind of his own.
She leaned down to meet my face. The butterfly under her breast disappeared in the crumple
of her tanned rolls.
“Bite me,” she ordered authoritatively. This bitch was a domanatrix in her past life.
“No,” I jeered. Now he was losing interest. Talking during sex was not my thing.
“C’mon give it a go. Taste me.”
She moved off my dick and up my body. Resting her head on the pillow, her neck was at
mouth-level. Her neck was freckled. There was a small string tan at the base of it where her crucifix
chain usually resisted. Catholic vampire girl.
I lifted my head slightly and kissed her neck.
“Bite it.”
“No.”
“But it’s funnn. So erotic.”
The discussing of biting each other had killed my little fucker. I considered telling her that
and calling it quits. Instead I figured one nip would do her good and then she could suck him back to
life as compensation for wasting my time.
I pursed my lips like I was a suction cup and pressed into her neck. She was very demanding,
but I still feared biting her would result in a slap and a half-naked chick storming out of the flat.
“That’s a hickey. Bite me!”
Calm your freak-ass down you slut, I thought, but did not dare say. That would result in a
punch to the dick and a fully-naked chick running down the street.
At this point she did deserve a good bite, so I tried to make it hurt. Skin did taste different
when it was clamped between your teeth. It really bared the taste. She tasted like halloumi. Same salty
taste and similar tough, stretchy texture.
She pressed her neck deeper into my face, smothering my nose with her chin. I felt her hand
trail back and run up the length of my shaft.
“He likes this,” she whispered. Her tone was triumphant. Yes, congratulations on getting the
sensitive genital up and at ‘em.
She was right, however. He liked it. I liked it too. It was a confusing... taboo experience.
Perhaps that is what made it fun.
I cannot tell you much about what happened to this girl. She ruined my life in all the right ways.
Checking her Facebook, it looks like she died or is in a coma back in South Africa. Most of the
comments are along the lines of ‘think of you every day still” and “you will always be in my prayers”
along with some shit written in Afrikaans. So presumably she died of Ebola or some shit.
Now on this night a part of me awakened. It is a part all humans have, and it is the part most
have locked-away in the depths of their desires because it is so immoral, so disgusting that any
occurrence is considered global news.
I, of course, am talking about cannibalism: the secret treat forgotten by the modern world.
That South African bitch thought it was kinky fun, but I discovered it far more desirably beyond the
bedroom setting. It could be a way of life—a forbidden way of life.
The South African chick and I banged during my first few weeks at Victoria University. Back
then I thought I would have the wild university experience promised by American films. Drinking,
drug experimentation, and fucking girls. And, in the end, I would calm down and walk out with a
degree in history and continue on with my life.
I was in my third year now. I would never finish university.
Two
It was sunny today, but that was no excuse to sit outside. For some reason the Kelburn campus quad
acted as a wind tunnel despite being sheltered on all sides. Only some pretentious hipster chick sat
outside reading a Penguin Classic, the pages blowing back and forth until she slapped them down. She
could hold the pages in place, but her bob cut was not doing her good: long enough to blow in front of
her face but short enough she cannot tie it up.
I sat on the chairs just beyond the library gates overlooking the entrance to the university
Hub. My engineering friend, Shen, sat there humming something to himself. He would leave soon
because there were no sockets here. It was the only spot I could find. First-year students had swarmed
the Hub and library and stolen all the best spots. That was always the case unless you got to Victoria
before 9am because no first-years had the endurance to get up that early.
Shen did not say goodbye to me as he packed up his computer and left. We did not
acknowledge each other with greetings or goodbyes. We did not talk much. We hung out because he
was my flatmate back in University Hall accommodation last year and neither of us were social
enough to make long-term friends. We sat together for company, but it was out of convenience.
I kicked my feet up onto his abandoned chair—a douchebag move. I was not in the mood to
have someone come sit so close next to me. They would. I could sit face-to-face with this chair
pressed into my knees and someone would still sit there. I am not a social person, but I know social
boundaries.
The hipster chick came back inside, failing her mission to look carefree. She walked over to
the Vic Books coffee shop and got in the line. It was a long line. It was always a long line, but it
moved much quicker than most other coffee lines in Wellington.
An Outlook notification popped up on my Surface. It was time to head to my sociology
tutorial. I did history with a minor in geography. Sociology is my filler paper.
The tutorial was in the Cotton building. The building was connected to the Hub so I could
leave exactly when the tutorial was scheduled to start and still be on time. Of course, slow groups of
walkers had to be accounted for. Asians and Polynesians were the worst. Always unaware of the
people around them. They walked in large, spread out herds at the speed of sloths. With the
Polynesian students, they were usually fat so it made it more difficult to get around them.
I can say all this shit about Polynesians. My parents fostered a Samoan-Maori girl and she
lived up to the stereotype. Plump, oblivious, and she has always managed to take up as much space on
a walkway as possible. It was frustrating to try and get past her in the narrow hallways of our old
Kilbirnie house. She would intentionally walk slow and drag her hands across both walls to make sure
I could not get past until I started punching her. She was an annoying bitch. I probably wasted hours
overall in the time I spent trying to get by her.
The Cotton building was more like an expressway than an extension of the Hub. It was so close in
proximity to the student hangout area, but only older students sat in their corridor chairs. It was a
weird place to try and hang out: close enough to the Hub that you could still hear the white noise
chatter of students but it also had a certain degree of isolation. The large corridor linking Cotton, Alan
Macdiarmid, and the smaller Laby rarely was bustling. Only when engineering or computer science
lectures were let out did it get packing. You could sit there and hear the sounds of students, but look
up and see no one. Haunting, to a certain degree.
I was right in assuming I could leave at the last moment. The tutor had not shown up yet.
Tyler was his name. He looked like a first-year and certainly acted like one. Tyler was very interested
in being cool and down-to-Earth with us which meant he usually just laughed if a group discussions
went AWOL or if someone showed up late with a Vic Books coffee in hand.
Choosing a seat was awkward. All the students were spaced out with one chair between them
—except the two blonde girls who stuck to each other like Siamese twin—so anywhere I took a seat I
would be wedging myself between to people I was unacquainted with.
I chose the seat that was the fairest distance between the people on each side. One was a guy
with a boil on his chin that I would just love to see popped, and the other was a brunette chick with an
Alice in Wonderland notebook. I edged my chair closer to her than Pimply McOilyface.
She smelled good. Not a perfume of deodorant smell, just human. Perhaps her hair, pulled
over the shoulder closest to me, was what smelled natural. She smelled… edible.
I clawed at my thigh, my nails making a skitting sound against the jeans.
She threw a smile of acknowledgment my direction and then looked down at her phone on the
table. I did not care if she smiled. I did not care if she was a great talker or wild in the bedroom. I
wanted her flesh. I wanted to rip it off her body and scarf it down. It was so soft, flawless, begging to
be mauled.
I fantasised about eating her skin like a blanket made of bacon until the tutor finally strolled
in.
“I was halfway here when I realised I forgot my glasses,” he joked. He had a full keep cup
latte in his hand so there was a chance he was making an excuse.
Glad he had shown up. I needed a distraction.
On the way back out of the tutorial I encountered my first-year history lecturer, Matt… something.
Mathew Bushkof or something like that. A strange guy. Consistently wore jandals regardless of the
time of year. He was Australian and there was no second-guessing that. I recall hating him. He was
obnoxious and never put up the lecture slides until the week of the exam, giving us very little time to
revise. He did not recognise me as we passed each other in the corridor. Most lecturers did not pay me
much notice. I sat at the back and never put my hand up for anything. I am glad they did not recognise
me. Standing in line for coffee having to small chat with a former lecturer was my idea of hell.
Oh heya blah blah. How have you been? Still doing blah blah? Oh yeah? Which courses are
you taking?
Small talk with anyone I do not know well is the worst thing ever. It is just a script both
parties adhere to uphold social conversational norms but really neither of us care about the other’s
life.
There was a ten minute gap between my tutorial and my history lecture. The lecture
was for a different history class than the tutorial I just had. Lectures and tutorials always cut
off ten minutes before the hour—or began ten minutes into the hour after midday—to ensure
students had enough time to get from one class to the other
I was only a short walk through the Hub and across the quad to the Hunter building
for my lecture so I meandered to the main Vic Books cafe. I say ‘main’ because the Vic
Books cafe faced the Vic Books outlet across the Hub. You can never have too much coffee:
the Wellington motto.
Vic Books—as implied by the name—is both student bookstore and café. All books required
for a course will usually be available there unless they run out of stock. They also have
general fiction and a fuckload of children’s books for some reason. I cannot remember the
last time I bought an actual book in Vic Books, let alone browsed the shelves. I only glanced
at the last-ditch sale section right next to the line for coffee. It had everything from pop-up
books to Danielle Steel-esque novels alongside the history of biology and language learning
books. A wonderful juxtaposed disaster.
I recognised the girl two people ahead of me in line. Her hair was red, and that
matched the fact she smelled like strawberry. I had sat directly next to her when the lecturer
that there be no spaces left between the students to ensure everyone fit into the first few rows.
She smelled good. She probably tasted good too.
I notice the smell with girls than I do with guys. Guys always seem to have the same
musty Linx smell. It was a sensual smell, but not one that made me salivate to taste their
skin.
This is a generalisation: female skin is more desirable than male skin. It smells better
and it looks better—except for those chicks covered in zits and red splotches, which is also a
fair bunch of them. My mind made the leap that good smell and appearance meant good taste.
It is like walking past a bakery. Not one of those cheap downtown Asian-owned bakeries... l
mean expensive French or Italian bakeries where the goods look delectable and the smell
seeping through the door is alluring. I guess it is the same for Subway who uses the smell of
warm bread intentionally to draw customers in. Perhaps that is a comparison with less
pretension. I have never actually been by any fancy little bakeries in central Wellington.
Here, you only get the previously mentioned Asian ones with stale doughnuts and for some
reason the option for fried chicken on the side.
I have gotten distracted. The redhead was long gone and the barista was trying to get
my attention by leaning over the counter and widening their eyes. I snapped back into reality
and gave them my order. Patting my satchel, I realised I had forgotten my keep cup. It was
sitting at the bottom of the pile of plates, bowls, and other cups next to the sink back at the
flat. Oh well. No discount.
There is no point in describing the actual lecture. Our professor, Mia Chekhov, mainly went
over an assignment due in three weeks and only got a quarter of the way through the
presentation for the next topic. She probably could have made it halfway had some fuckwits
not asked fuckwit questions:
What’s the referencing style?
How long should the bibliography be?
Can we use the readings?
I read this great personal account of the Arab Spring on Tumblr. Can I use it even if
it’s not an academic source?
Dear God, these people’s heads would blow if they learned all the answers they
needed could be found in the course outline. Mia answered each question in excruciating
detail despite this fact… and she’s the one who actually wrote the course outline. She wanted
to seem pleasant and approachable even though saying ‘don’t ask me anything that can be
answered by the syllabus’ would be much more efficient.
I only came to university today for one reason: the club meeting was on at 5pm and could
find little excuse not to attend my classes prior to this. What club is this? Well, it is officially
called the Lecter Study Group. This is a front. A room at Victoria is booked under this name
and is not questioned. It is assumed to be a non-affiliated study group. No studying is done.
Usually ethical and philosophical questions are posed and darkest desires are revealed.
After the South African chick incident, I was informed of the Lecter Study Group via
her ex-boyfriend, oddly enough. He messaged me once she went back home and mentioned
that she had told him about me—I had fucked her prior to when they got together, not during
—and that he was part of a society I could be interested in. This is how the members get in.
There is no sign-ups or promotion, only underground word-of-mouth.
Miss South Africa was a part of something much larger. She had met Ross—president
of Lecter Study Group via a deep web forum dedicated to people with interests like ours.
That was why she was in New Zealand: to attend a couple of the meetings. Apparently New
Zealand had one of the largest under grounds for these people. I suspect it is linked to the
exoticised depiction of Maori as man-eaters and that is what makes the curious freak venture
here to feel acceptance. They will not find it in the general public. You have to know exactly
what people you are looking for in order to be accepted.
* * *
I felt the most unsettling part for an outside would be the snack table. If you walked in,
knowing this was a meeting for cannibals, and saw a platter of crackers, cheese, and meat you
may have some instant red flags. It was ham and salami… unfortunately. Nothing more.
The snacks provided were always gone by the ending of a meeting. Discussing thatwhich-
could-not-be-eaten always meet people salivate like Pavlov’s dogs. That is why meaty
products were always available at a meeting. It was the best we could get to satiate our needs
even if we knew the real thing was better.
Well, most of us enjoyed the meat platter. It turns out the anti-meat movement had
made it into the cannibal underground. This bitch, Kat, called herself an ‘philosophical
vegan.’ Her explanation is that humans are the most prominent threat to the natural food
chain, and something about if we continue to eat whales and sheep or some shit we will run
out of meat, blah blah blah. Kitty Kat says the most environmentally-friendly option for meat
is humans: the self-efficient, self-regulating meat stock. So, she is vegan unless the
opportunity to eat humans arises. She is weird. Many of the people at this meeting are
fucking weird. She is the worst because she acts self-righteous about her desire to eat people.
The rest of us know our craving is immoral.
“Do you all remember that Florida case where that kid went nuts and killed two
people and then ate their faces?” Kat asked, her earrings jingled as she looked from side to
side. “I think he's a repressed cannibal.”
God, Kat is the worst. Too bad she is vice-president of this shindig. She is the kind of
person. Who says we should not assume an animal’s gender but then also says eating
‘unnecessary humans’ Soylent Green-style is part of the natural order. Unnecessary, in her
opinion, is humans who fail to contribute to society. Homeless people, the elderly, the
disabled, people on the benefit. She is less philosophical cannibal and more fascist cannibal.
I left the meeting early, excusing myself to finish an assignment. I did not have an assignment
to finish. Well, I did, but that is not the real reason I wanted to leave.
These people, the rare few who could understand what is happening in my mind, are a
bunch of pretentious hypothesisers. A lot of talk, but none of them are daring. They do not
understand what I want. I cannot talk to them about what I am going to do.
All the lights are off and the curtains open when I get back to the flat. Sean told me
the gang would be going out. I was invited. I chose the shitty meeting instead.
Our flat was fucking cold. Most Wellington houses are, but this one was particularly
brutal because it was out of the way of any direct sunlight. Wedged between the side of a hill
and thick forestry, it was a damp and dreary place. We had busted two dehumidifiers trying to
suck some of the icy water out the air. It was still the best we could get this close to the
university. Four bedrooms with $130 per flatmate is actually quite a steal here. It is sad that
people envy us.
The front door led straight to the hallway. Through the archway to my left was the
ransacked living room. We had bought our furniture from a goodwill store and it certainly
showed its wear. There was a small box-style television with no cable access. Stale chips,
empty bottles, and a two greasy pizza boxes were flung all over the room. I lived with
animals; I lived with boys.
Directly at the end of the hall was the kitchen. It was also a disaster. I could smell it
from here. Timothy had scorched popcorn and thrown it in the indoor bin rather than outside.
More beer bottles in there plus our Barney & Friends plastic cup collection—also from
goodwill—lined up next to a bottle of empty vodka and a 1.5 litre Budget brand cola bottle
that had fallen over.
Each bedroom had its own lock. Usually I left the door unlocked. There was too great
a risk that I would lose my key or forget it in my room and then the landlord would have to
drive over from Upper Hutt to let me back in. I had learned by example: Gabe. He still locked
his room out of habit sometimes, but I have seen the landlord come over to help him three
times since the start of this year.
A whiff of mustiness hit me when I creaked the door open. I had left the window and
curtains closed all day in case somebody decided to climb the tree and gander a look in.
Laid out on the bed was a see-through plastic raincoat. The kind they sell at the
Westpac Stadium for a rugby game when it is raining. Laying on top of it was a fishing knife.
Liam had brought it to the flat along with his parents’ old knife set. He would not notice it
missing for a few days. Even if he did, the kitchen was such a mess that he would be forced
to assume it was somewhere in the wreckage rather than in my room.
The lads rocked back up to the flat at 2:34am. I know this because I was still awake. I had
been sitting at my desk chair staring at the contents on the bed the whole time. That may
seem like an exaggeration. It is not. Decisions like these cannot come without much
internalisation.
“Chrissy!” Liam hollered. “Get up and let's go out.”
Timothy hushed him in an equally loud manner. They were a bunch of idiots.
“A’ight. Let's get Sean-Dog to bed and if it's still bad in the mornin’ we’ll get ‘im to
the hospital,” Gabe said in a serious manner. He was the most sober.
At this point I opened the door.
“Ayyyyyy, Chrissy!”
Gabe hushed Liam this time. Sean—our English flatmate—was draped over the
shoulders of Timothy and Gabe. All three had blood speckles on their shirts. Sean had a trail
of blood going from his hand up his forearm.
“What the fuck have you guys been doing? Dear God, is he alright?” I asked, slightly
panicked. I quickly closed the door behind me, remembering what was in there.
“The dumb fucker broke a glass in his hand,” Liam laughed.
Gabe shoved him.
“Get off, aye? Go pass out.”
Liam snorted, but realised he was not being any help and stumbled off to his room. I
opened the door to Sean’s room. Gabe and Timothy dragged him in and flung him on the bed
face-down.
“You guys get to bed,” I suggested politely. “You’re too shitfaced to do anything. I'll
help him out.”
“Oi,” Timothy snarled, actually offended.
Liam was relieved: “Cheers, man. I’d probably make it worse. Tell us if you need
anything, though.”
He put his arm around Timothy and led him down to the lounge. I followed, but
turned the opposite direction to head to the bathroom which was off from the kitchen.
We had no bandages, because of course we would not. I slapped the toilet roll to make
spin and gathered the tissue. Did we have any plasters at least? Also a no. Just a toilet role.
I mercifully rolled Sean so he was on his side. His face had been crushed into the
pillow. Funny: the British are known for their drinking yet this bastard is the one passed out.
Sean played a factor in my bisexual awakening. He is the right kind of lad for a guy
like me. Slender, smooth-faced, kind, and non-threatening. Here he was, vulnerable beneath
me. I loved him too dearly to hurt him.
Drops of blood hit splattered on the cream-colour carpet. That was going to be a bitch
to clean up tomorrow. I stared for a while: torn between looking at his face and his bleeding
arm. His bleeding arm won.
I got down on my knees and held his hand, Prince Charming-style. Beautiful and
battered.
“Why’d you do this to yourself, buddy?” I whispered, smiling.
Timothy and Gabe’s laughter echoed through the hallway and shuttered the door. I
had locked the door. We could not have them walk in and see what was about to happen.
My hand trailed gently up Sean’s thigh. His dick responded to the grasp. I massaged
it, but my eyes remained on my primary target. It required more thought. I was afraid of what
would happen if I did it. Not to Sean, but to me.
His breathing picked up. I took my hand away. His erection now pressed against his
jeans. I should have helped him get rid of it, but I made a different decision that night.
Bring his hand up to my mouth, I ran my tongue along a streak of blood. The taste
was magnificent. Not just the blood, but the skin as well. He tasted like warm pigskin
covered in a watery sauce.
The wound itself was the best part. It was the freshest blood. I had to be careful. Sean
was still alive, after all. He would wake up if it hurt too much.
Blood painted my mouth. Turns out Kat was right: it was possible to be a repressed
cannibal. Here. Now. Drinking blood and tasting flesh. Nothing had ever felt more right.
I leapt when he jolted up. His eyes were close to popping out of his sockets. I would
be quite the sight: face covered in his blood.
He was about to speak, but I cut him off: “Hey, man, I’m just here to bandage ya up,”
I said, holding up the scrunched-up toilet paper.
The eye-contact was hard to maintain. He looked terrified and I looked guilty.
“You okay?” I asked, trying to act like the sane one.
“What the bloody hell is on your face?” he whimpered.
Sean was not just drunk. There was something else in his system. That would work to
my advantage. He was already struggling to keep his eyes open, although they still looked
full of fear.
“Nah, don’t worry. You just put your hand on my face is all.” A terrible excuse. “I’ll
wrap it up in the tissue and you can sleep all this off. Gabe will drive you to emergency if it
still looks bad in the morning, alright?”
He gave a single nod. His head fell back onto the pillow as I got back down and took
his hand.
“Boys say you smashed a glass,” I said with a hollow smile.
He breathed a sound of approval and then he was out again. His heavy sighs told me
he would be out for good now, but I dared not try anything else.
When I left him the tissue already had a spreading red spot. We would worry about
that in the morning. Well, the others would. I had bigger fish to fry.
Sean would not remember what happened this night. I assured myself that. He would
not even believe his own memory if he did. It was too absurd to even think to be true. Your
flatmate, a blood-sucker? Impossible.
But tonight I would not forget. It pushed me over the edge. I, literally, had a taste for
blood. If I wanted that sensation again I would have to do some fucked up shit. Licking the
last of his blood off my hand, I knew the payoff far outweighed the reward.
Three
The fish knife guided her into the bathroom stall. I locked it behind us. The plastic raincoat
made a crumpling sound as I turned back to face her.
“Please,” she began meekly.
I pressed the knife back into her throat. This time with enough pressure to draw blood.
“Please do—”
“Keep it shut,” I said firmly.
A tear trickled from her eye. It was now or never.
The knife went through her skin like it was warm butter. We could not have her
making any protest noises while I feasted.
* * *
At 9:53am I made the decision to be late to my lecture rather than leave the Vic Books line.
For some reason The Hub was always heaving on a Wednesday. Perhaps by that point
students had overcome their weekend hangovers and were ready to attend class, but by
Thursday they were back to drinking again given they were nearing the end of the week.
“Hello,” I said in a squeaky fake voice—I was poor at feigning kindness. “Long
black.”
The brunette with a nose ring stamped my coffee card and passed it back before
writing up my order on a sticky note. She paused and looked back up at me.
“For Chris?”
“Yup.”
She smiled to herself—the baristas took great pleasure in remembering the names of
regulars. I think we all liked it to a certain degree. I liked being familiar enough that she
could remember my name almost every time. It gave a sense of loyalty to Vic Books over the
other coffee outlets here.
Then again, there was also a degree of tragedy to being recognised as a familiar—was
I such a being of routine? As humans, we like to think of ourselves as unique, a trout against
the stream, but having a barista know my name and order reminded me that I was here every
day—waiting in line—at 9:45am before my first lecture.
I was not the most tragic being of routine. An engineering friend, Shen, told me the
sorrows of having the girl at Ilott have his order ready before he even asked. He
told me it was a wake-up call about how often he was eating chicken and chips from
there… but so far he has not stopped. No wonder he is a fucking fat lard.
A fat lard who would probably taste good. Tender, juicy fat covered in salt and oil.
“Long black for Chris,” the barista with dreads said, sliding my cup across the
counter.
I was always a little embarrassed to collect my cup. It was this Typo cup with pink
triangle patterns and the quote “I’d rather take a coffee than compliments just now” from
Little Women. Cups with quotes always ooze of pretension. Cups with dumb quotes always
say ‘I’m edgy and different, but I still like coffee.’
I did not buy this cup myself. I got it from the office Secret Santa two years ago. I was
a temp who happened to be working over the Christmas period so I was included in the office
holiday events. Whoever got it for me clearly did not have a clue who I was… let alone the
fact I was a man and not a thirteen-year-old girl who thinks a caramel mocha from McCafe is
a real coffee.
The traffic was quite bad outside of Vic Books… I, of course, mean the traffic in The
Hub, not the actual Kelburn Parade traffic. Students were meant to obey the road rules in the
Kelburn campus. You stayed to the left and you gave way at an intersection. I had to wait just
outside of Vic Books for a break in the crowd. At which point I slipped across and started
heading up the stairs to Cotton.
Being a cannibal was difficult as being a vampire when stuck in a bustling crowd. It
was hammering rain outside and the rich smell people heating up under their raincoats was
irresistible.
An important question: do cannibals want to kill other humans? Certainly not. I just want
humans to be edible without consequence. It’s like necrophiliacs not wanting to kill, rather
just fuck dead people… bad example. Necrophiliacs are nasty.
Discussions like this are the type often gone over in VUWCS after screenings of those
jungle cannibal movies. Those movies certainly do not put us in a good light, but they are
very fun to watch. At the points where you are meant to be grossed out, a cannibal will lean
closer and examine the detail of the intestines. We watch cannibal horror films for fun. To
satiate our desires we have to watching something more realistic.
Autopsies, surgeries, anything like that. Those videos provide the most tangible
sensation. The scalpel becomes the teeth of a cannibal; you are the one sinking your teeth into
the flesh. The only downside to these is their clinical aspect. All practical, no pleasure.
The heavy doors were down in Cotton. A guard stood in front. Engineering students and
some familiar faces from my class hovered around outside. The guard looked green with his
eyes as bulbous as Gollum’s—clearly he was aware of the situation beyond those doors.
“Bomb threat?” one girl asked.
I turned to answer before her friend could: “No. Someone’s dead in the girls’
bathroom.
Both looked at me, horrified. I maintained a vacant face and went back to the steps
down to Vic Books.
Surely they would have to put the whole campus on lockdown? A girl with chunks of
flesh missing was slumped over in a bathroom stall.
I waited for the Easterfield elevator. Sure: the elevator took forever and I was only going to
the third floor… but walking was not something I had time for.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a girl wearing a blue headscarf smacked something.
Glancing back, the Snapper machine was fucking up again. It had the red screen notice of
‘Out of Order.’ The second girl, the one wearing a white headscarf, picked up her friend’s
snapper card and placed it back down. The card balance had updated even though the
machine said it was out of order.
The elevator door opened. I hurried in—the doors closed oh-so-fast—and stood facing
the girls. The friend was pushing the one with Snapper dilemmas along so the next person
could use the godforsaken machine. If she had not hurried her along, the girl in the blue
headscarf would have straight-up-thrown-down with a Snapper machine.
My heart stopped briefly when a hand clawed the elevator door back open. In stepped
a policeman.
FUCK.
Nope. It was all good. He pushed the button for the second floor. Turns out cops are
lazy when it comes to staircases just like the rest of us.
Trying to act nonchalant next to a cop in confined space is not as easy as it sounds.
The point is to try and act normal… but when you feel the gaze of a policeman you forget
what normal even looks like. Why am I crossing my legs while standing up? Stop swaying!
Maybe I should vogue. That will be inconspicuous.
I remembered how to breathe when the elevator door closed once again and he was
gone. No one had any reason to investigate me. I did not know her. Nobody saw me enter the
girls’ bathroom.
That is the nice thing about the Cotton girls’ toilets: there are so few women in the
engineering block that they are almost always empty. Waiting around in a stall for a moment
to strike was tedious for the same reason. The safety was that you could anticipate no one else
would come in for a fair amount of time—especially if you planned your attack to be during
lectures rather than at the breaks. Even better yet: no queues for the women’s bathroom also
meant nobody would grow suspicious of one stall remaining locked for an hour… until the
blood started to pool out of the stall. A killer would have a good amount of time to get as far
away from the scene as possible—but instead I went to Vic Books.
Humans: they taste good going down, but not so great when they came back up. I chose the
Easterfield toilets to release the bile because they were almost as quiet as the Cotton ones. I
could throw up without anyone hearing. This was actually my second option for an attack,
but there are more girls here and they can come to the bathrooms quite sporadically. I know: I
monitored Easterfield and Cotton for three hours each just to get a sense of the toilet trip
frequency of females.
Unfortunately, some other dude came in while I was in the midst of hurling and I was
unable to stop it. I heard him step into a stall and quickly got up to bolt for it. I got as far as
the mirror before realising I had to clean myself up. Perhaps people would raise eyebrows
over a dude walking around while his face was smeared with vomit and blood.
I hit the tap on and slid my hand into the paper-towel dispenser. There were none.
Shit.
The guy flushed the toilet. He would leave the stall soon. I bent down and started
throwing water on my face. He came out—ignored me entirely—and left without even
washing his hands… ew.
There was something haunting about my reflection in the mirror. Still a couple of
smears of blood and bile here and there… but the problem was the eyes. They looked feral,
almost had a yellow cat-like twinge. They were more incriminating that the smeared on my
lips.
That was actually a prominent idea encouraged in Cannibal Society: never feast on
someone against their will no matter how delicious they look. A faulty idea. Where on earth
would we find people who wanted to be eaten besides those weird weeaboos who love ‘vore’
or whatever that shit is? Those people do not exist. Almost all the members of Cannibal
Society struggled with this, but none of them were willing to pursue their desires against the
morale… Killing is not instinct even for a cannibal.
I went back into the stall and got a fistful of toilet paper. Back at the sink I washed the
rest of the shit off my face. Not literal shit. People who like scatology are fucking monsters in
comparison to those who idolise Hannibal Lecter.
My tongue came across a foreign object as I stood there staring at the mirror. I
plucked it out with my fingers. It was a squishy white thing… I think the skin from her wrist?
Looked paler than the rest of her had been. I put it back in my mouth swallowed… Did not
taste as good the second time around.
I walked back out of the bathroom, cleared of sin, but then I had to walk back in. I
forgot my stupid Typo cup and I still had a whole long black.
Looked like I would not be having class today. Two birds, one stone with that. I
untangled my headphones and headed for my Karori flat. The bloodied raincoat made a
crinkling sound as my bag bounced against my hip.
Four
I lay like a foetus on the bed. My raincoat and fish knife remained in the bag that I had
thrown under the desk. My stomach hurt like hell. Perhaps it was stress, but also eating raw
flesh did not help.
My phone had buzzed a couple of times. Two texts from the group chat with my my
mother, father, and foster sister. I also had thirty-seven unread Facebook messages. They
were all about the same thing: a murder had just taken place at Victoria University.
What were the chances I would get caught? Right now they felt very high. I was
surprised a SWAT team was not busting down the door right now.
Who am I kidding? The New Zealand police are not organised enough to get an
armed task force after me. Hopefully they are incompetent enough that they will not figure
me out at all. I had probably left a gold mine of DNA at the scene. Saliva, a bit of blood,
finger prints. Providing I never had a run-in with the law ever again, I could continue to
evade them. They may get my DNA, but they have nobody to match it too.
But what about security cameras? Shit. Are there security cameras facing the Cotton
bathrooms? Cotton is one of the newer and technologically advanced buildings. They made
that clear with their display of 3D printed figurines right when you walk in. It was very
possible that cameras had picked me up.
I needed a distraction. Sitting up, my head felt as if a boulder rolling to the back of my
skull. Man, humans do taste good, but they are a bitch on the body.
The message notifications were ignored. I swiped through to the last page of apps. I
kept all my abandoned apps like iBooks, Google Drive, Flappy Bird, Tinder… and Grindr.
Ah yes. Grindr. Tinder would not do. It was set to girls only. I did not want to see a
female body. Not right now—I would start throwing up again.
Courtenay Place: I would consider it a reverse Las Vegas. At daytime, it is quite charming.
All the cafes and Asian food joints are open. Sweet Mama’s hipster café is quite the brunch
attraction, sitting right across the brick quad from the statue of the War of the Worlds-esque
movie camera monster. This is where all the daytime parades take place such as both sets of
Middle Earth trilogies and some lesser Kiwi films. Courtenay Place is the pinnacle
representation of Wellington during the day.
Now, I call it a reverse Las Vegas because while Las Vegas has all its charm during
the night and the grime during the day, Courtenay Place is the opposite. Once you take the
light away this place becomes a shit hole. All the drunks, the homeless, and the drunk
homeless come out. During the day, it is the standard familiar beggar faces.
This is where the infamous Blanket Man used to chill. At daytime, it is usually
mentally-ill and addicted Maori blokes who panhandle here. The white drug addicts usually
beg on Willis Street during the day—the business and shopping district. At night, everyone
conceals here. It is all the different beggar types. It is exhausting having to avoid eye-contact
with so many people chilling in the brick sidewalk.
I am on Courtenay Place at this ungodly hour of 11pm for one reason: to distract
myself from the horrors of today with some dick.
Grindr works fast. This dude invited me to a movie screening at the Courtenay Place
arthouse cinema: The Paramount. His other hook-up had apparently cancelled on him at the
last minute and I was happy to take his place. Free ticket, free dick.
There were a couple of smokers standing like guards out front of paramount. I
examined both. In one of his Grindr pictures I had seen him smoking so it was good to
double-check. Yes, I knew what he was meant to look like, but people always look different
to their dating profile photos. Less makeup, different lighting, or—in the case of a male—
variance in facial hair.
My phone buzzed: im on the deck
He must have seen me walking down below. He knew what I looked like, at the very
least.
It was quite the crowd for this film. Apparently a special showing of The Rocky
Horror Picture Show was a big deal. That makes sense. It is Wellington. Wellingtonians like
weird shit. Half of the freaks here were dressed like what I presume were characters from the
movie. Many fishnets, space-age outfits, and one dude in golden spandex—what had I gotten
myself into?
He gave me a nod from the deck. He was dressed normally at the very least. Mustardcoloured
bomber jacket and a black T-shirt with red lips on it. Tight black pants. Nice bulge.
He was vaping—a shame. I hate anyone who smokes anything ever. It ruins the environment
for everyone.
“Anthony,” he stated, sticking out his hand. He had a softer voice than expected.
“Hey, Chris.”
I took his hand. Soft but sweaty. Probably tasted nice. I would try to work licking his
fingers into the banging tonight.
“You at Vic or Massey?” he asked, putting his away his vape pen so we could head
inside. It was a nice night in Wellington, but it was still blustery at this altitude.
“I’m at Vic.”
“Nice. What are you taking?”
“History. What about you?”
“I’m at Vic too. Classics.”
“Ah, cool.”
Fuck. We have thirty minutes before the movie starts. Thirty minutes of this.
We continued to small chat. He learned I spoke Russian and I learned he was an
arrogant fuck. He scoffed at the fact I had never heard of Rocky Horror.
“How’s that possible? It’s the most important cult film ever! One of the guys is even a
Kiwi.”
I do not care. I am not here to be inducted into a cult movie. I am here to get fucked
and forget my woes. After all his haughty bullshit, he better have the greatest dick I have ever
had.
I have had two dicks prior to him. First time was with a guy I had also met on Grindr
and that was awkward but easy, the second time was in the Ivy gay bar where I blew a dude
in the bathroom. He gave me crabs. Not crabs in my pubes, crabs in my eyelashes. Do you
know what that is like? Itchy eyes and the knowledge the bloodsuckers had been on another
dude’s crotch!
What I am getting to is that Anthony had a low bar to reach, but I still had standards.
So far he was a lot of shitty talk. He was hollering at random scenes in the film—along with
the rest of the crowd—and then would lean to me to explain what intertextual reference he
was laughing at.
Grindr: you take what you can get. At the very least the memory of blood gargling out
of the bitch’s mouth was fading. The movie was certainly absurd enough to distract me.
We were back at his flat. He had quite the swanky student accommodation: a double bed and
a bathroom shared with only one other flatmate.
I lounged awkwardly on the unmade bed. His laptop and cables laid next to me along
with a pen that had lost its lid. I had to flick away a couple of orange crumbs that were resting
on top of his laptop. He was a hipster, but he was also a slob.
Anthony pulled his shirt—which I now knew was referencing the movie—over his
head, frizzing up his hair slightly as he did so. His chest was nothing spectacular. No six-pack
or strongly developed muscles, but he was not fat. I had a stick-out stomach that I was very
aware of. Not fat, but not fit. I was a student with a diet of chips and noodles (and human
flesh), of course I had a bit of a belly.
“Oh, I got something on at eight tomorrow so you’ll have to leave by then,” he stated
while nonchalantly ripping his belt off his jeans.
Once down to his boxers, he plopped himself on the bed.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yup.”
I glanced him up and down, then looked to the nightstand. Lube was present, but he
was missing the other crucial thing.
“You got a condom?” I asked quite innocently.
He did that same mocking laugh he had done when I had asked him who Meat Loaf
was.
“Am I gonna get you pregnant?”
I laughed hesitantly and waved away the question.
He is so going to give me an STD. At least it probably won’t be eyelash crabs again.
We went ahead with it without a condom. Under normal circumstances sex ed had
drilled it well enough into my brain that condoms seemed like a necessity. Not today. Today I
had fucking eaten a girl in a public bathroom. Safety and sanitation were irrelevant.
Five
8:32am on the first Wednesday back after Easter break. I sat with Anthony on the steps
outside Vic Books. The rain was blowing at us even as we sat under cover. I would have gone
inside had Anthony not been vaping.
“You know,” I began, setting my coffee on the ground. The ceramic cup made a
scraping sound as it touched the concrete. “Just because it smells like raspberry doesn’t mean
it’s any better than, like, smoke or some shit.”
Anthony inhaled and turned to face me. He leaned in real close. Close enough I could
see a black hair he had missed on his neck while shaving.
Then he blew a fuck-load of vape in my face.
It did actually smell pretty good, but I repelled back and flung my hands around in an
exaggerated manner. I pretended to be a more boisterous guy around him. Everyone fakes
their outward appearance when the relationship is fresh.
“If I get cancer within the next ten-to-twenty years I am directly blaming you.”
Anthony looked back to the street, smiling. Not much if a talker. Perhaps I became
more talkative to compensate for the silence.
It had been quiet the first week back. Perhaps some students were still on vacation, but it was
more likely people were less enthused to come back after the ‘cannibal incident.’
People should thank me for what happened. We got extra break time! Hah…
Actually, I was feeling pretty shit about all that. I considered going to the Vic counselling
service, but I also did not have a billion years in waiting-time on my hands. What would I tell
them, anyways? I am feeling down because some bitch I did not know died? Everyone was
suspicious at the moment. It would be a red flag to show some guilt around an event I
apparently had no part in.
The Vic Cannibals Society was certainly on-edge. All further gatherings were
cancelled until the killer was caught. For the best, really. If a meeting was discovered, then
nearly thirty people would be charged with murder.
Anthony put the vape pen into his leather satchel—I called it a man-purse to annoy him—and
stood up.
“I’m off. See you tonight?”
“Sure thing.”
“Sweet.”
I watched him stroll away. He looked like if a hipster fucked a newsy.
If I could choose how an ideal man looked, he would not be it. It should be no
surprise that not only did he vape, but he also rode a longboard. He had made it himself. It
was a rectangular and said ‘diss the establishment’ on the bottom accompanied by the
anarchist symbol.
He took classics, and classics boys were goddamn annoying. They talked about myth
as if they had just binged it on Netflix.
‘Despite everything, I still totally shipped Jocasta and Oedipus.’
This was why I avoided Anthony’s friends, not that he wanted me to meet them. He
thought I was weird. I knew that. You know what? His suspicions were valid, of course.
Perhaps I had seemed off recently. Everyone asked how I was feeling. And by
‘everyone’ I meant my Mum over the phone and my English flattie—in his own words: “you
right, mate?”
Anthony did not ask. Anthony did not care. He was banging me until he found a better
match on Grindr.
I was not ‘right.’ That much was clear, even to me. Getting into cannibalism was a
mistake, but now it was all I could think about.
I make it sound like a drug. ‘Cannibalism, not even once.’ It was not a drug, it was
worse. I would look at people and wonder how they tasted. Humans were walking bags of
meat. Girls are the worst. They flaunt their skin. They do it to tease men with sex, but they
goad me with much darker thoughts.
I got up. There was a light circle from where I was sitting. I, myself, was drenched. Even the
most antsy of smokers had headed indoors.
Walking back into Vic Books, nobody glanced at me. Most Vic students got soaked
when it started raining. Nobody ever wore a fucking raincoat. The unspoken idea was that
‘I’m going to be inside most of the day, I’ll dry off.’ Rather than carrying around a wet
weight… being the wet seemed reasonable.
I kept my eyes on the floor as I walked across the Hub. Cotton had re-opened, but
nobody was walking that way. No lectures were being held there for the time being, it was
just open for the people who had offices there. Of course, lectures were still being held in
Alan MacDiarmid and Laby, so people still had to venture through the heart of darkness for
their engineering lectures.
But I did not look. I was so paranoid that even looking off-headedly in Cotton’s
direction would implicate me.
The bathrooms under the steps leading up to the library were to become my sanctuary. They
were all independent stalls… and unisex.
Unisex stalls are the bane for womankind. Men are so atrocious in the bathroom. I
would know. I, a guy, have thrown up in Anthony’s flat bathroom and flushing the toilet did
not cut-it as clean-up. The Chinese girl in his flat hollered at him the next morning. He was a
good guy and took the fall for me, but he also low-key hated me afterwards and has not
invited me back to his flat since. He was coming to mine for a quickie tonight. He would not
stay the night. He had some excuse about starting an essay on The Bacchae that he had
already told me was not due for two weeks. Fuck Anthony. Well, fuck Anthony I do, but also
fuck Anthony. He would be a justified victim if he did not have three inches over me.
I made awkward eye contact with a chick as we both tried to go through the door at
the same time. She stood aside and let me through when it became clear that I was not going
to budge.
The stalls were cramped. Fat people had no chance in these things without a Taft
incident. That was fine for me. Kicking down the lid, I took a seat on the edge.
I sat there, rubbing my hands together, thinking about what I wanted to do. It was
more disgusting than cannibalism, if I am being honest. However, fulfilling cannibalistic
cravings on actual humans was not viable. The end of that road was wearing a Hannibal
Lecter mask in the prison courtyard.
So, I did what I had to do.
The sanitary disposal bin. I felt like a crackhead vampire. The device was designed to
keep what was disposed of discreet. It kept hands out with a dual flap: like a reverse vending
machine opening. You were not meant to be able to get into the bin itself, only deposit into it.
I broke the fucker. Thank God for cheap plastic.
I sat back once I had done so—was it really worth it? It would not taste as good as a
real girl. Humans are like sushi: fresh is best… Human sushi. That would be quite interesting.
Certainly tasty. I will take a trip to Maki Mono after this.
So why did God make women bleed? Most other animals do not. He did it to remind them of
what they are: bags of flesh and blood. He did it to remind men how unappreciative females
can be if they get so angry about a little bit of blood—forgetting the thousands of years where
men did the hunting and took the bloody hits. Girls can take a bit of bleeding from their cunts
because they have had a backseat to shedding blood in all other situations for most of history.
So, I fucking shoved a used tampon in my mouth. Disappointment. It really just tasted
like cotton with a funny aftertaste. Biting into it did not wring out the blood. It was mostly
dry cotton in the middle—this bitch had barely bled at all.
Bingo! Used megapad. Pulling it out through the hole, one of the blood lumps stuck to
the top of the bin lid. I scooped it up on my finger and rested it on my tongue. Blood was not
my favourite part of the body, skin was. You work with what you got, though. I mean, what
were the chances of somebody shedding their skin and stuffing it into the sanitary bin?
I gnawed on the centre of the pad where most of the blood had congregated. I had to
bite it hard to extract it from the cotton. The goal was to get as much blood as possible
without having to ingest much else. I did not want to be shitting cotton balls for the next few
days.
Why was I like this? Why was I sitting in a unisex stall eating period pads? A year ago I was
getting guys—and some girls—and sex was the peak of pleasure. Then it was weed that gave
me the good buzz. Now… cannibalism? That is quite the leap.
I read that schizophrenia usually onsets for guys in their late teens to twenties.
Symptoms include: hallucinations, delusions, social detachment, aloofness, and anhedonia.
But I was not anhedonic… I just had to work harder to feel pleasure.
And there the good feeling was. Suddenly the taste of cotton and dried blood cascaded
into warm, rich redness. I gnawed and tugged hard to get more. It tasted like a mild, metallic
curry, but it was the sensation that I got lost in.
With the fiery sensation in my hands, I came to realise the hollowed-out pad was on the
ground between my feet. There was more blood than what that thing was capable of holding.
I took my hands away from my mouth. Perhaps it was shock, but the pain was not
connecting to my brain. Two fingernails had been ripped off. That nice chunky part of the
palm below the thumb had been gouged in my right hand.
Fuck, my jeans. Was the first thought. The splotches of blood almost looked black
against the damp jeans.
Keep going till the pain kicks-in.
I slid my pinkie finger across my teeth before catching it why my canines. I pulled
hard. The flesh did not tear away. Perhaps my body was trying defend me by ensuring I could
not give it my all. I went back to my bloodied palm and worked on that—chunks were
already loose there.
There was blood on me, the floor, the sanitary bin, the sink, and the mirror… How did
it get on the mirror?
My face in the mirror was a tragic sight. Big, bewildered eyes and blood running
down the collar of my shirt. I stopped at this point. My hands were stinging quite badly.
Running them under the tap water was when I realised how much pain I was in. Water is
meant to help cuts and burns, but that shit also hurts like a bitch.
I licked my lips—getting as much taste as I could—and wiped the rest away with a
paper towel.
I could not leave the stall without cleaning all this up. I had certainly not done myself
good by injuring both hands. Paper towels were like sandpaper against the tender flesh. I did
what I could for the bathroom. Scrubbing away the blood too vigorously would cause me to
bleed more so I just lightly dabbed most of it away.
Now, how would I discreetly leave the stall? There was blood on my jeans—although
dark enough to be unnoticeable—and blood on my jacket and shirt.
Can’t go to the lecture like this.
I zipped up my jacket to hide the blood on the white shirt… but that just got more
blood on the jacket itself.
I had a nosebleed. Believable enough. I glanced at my hands. Oh, the hands.
It was searing to stuff them into my jacket pockets. Nobody could see my hands. I had
to use my knees to open the stall door. There was an Asian chick waiting to use it. Head
down, I hurried past her. Hopefully I had cleaned up enough blood.
I would have to cancel with Anthony.
* * *
The wound still stung when I ran it under water back at the flat. It was not worth checking the
cabinets for any bandages—I had learned that from last time.
Only one person had them: Sean. The hospital had given him extra bandages for when
he had to change the dressing. Turns out his hand had gotten infected so now he was
antibiotics. It was quite nasty looking. Almost green, in fact. I also wanted to sink my
motherfucking teeth into it because I knew how good it tasted from last time.
Sean opened the door in a stained shirt and briefs. I may be the bloodsucker, but he
has the tendencies of a vampire: pale, hates sun, sleeps all day.
“What’s up, man?” he asked groggily, his bandaged hand rubbed his hand.
“Hey, can I have one of your extra bandages?”
He took his hand away from his eye and cocked his head curiously.
“I fell off my bike on the way home and landed my hand onto some tin can or shit,” I
said, holding up the still-bleeding hand.
“Jesus!” he gasped. “Yeah. Give me a second.”
He vanished into his room and rummaged through his desk drawers. Guess he bought
it.
“You should also see the doctor, though,” he said while passing me a roll of dressing.
“The meds work really quick.”
Then something strange happened. His eyes intensified on my hand. The wound was
similar in size and placement. He rubbed his fingers together on his injured hand. Sean was
remembering something.
“All good?” I queried anxiously.
“Yup,” he said quietly, averting my gaze.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” he lied. “Honest”
“Because if something’s wrong… you should let me know.”
And I’ll kill you, too.
I could do it. I knew now I had it in me to commit heinous acts. Sean was a good
height, but he was scrawny. I could beat the shit out of him.
“Honest, man. I’ll all good… You right, mate?”
I held up my hand again.
“Just the hand,” I laughed.
He nodded, gradually closing his door as he did so.
He remembered something… but what exactly did he remember? It was possible he
remembered me touching him. That would be easier to explain than, you know, drinking the
blood from his wound.
I was not going to worry about it. Sean would not remember anything. He was out of
his fucking mind that night. Anything he thought happened I could easily deny.
Now, time to cancel with Anthony because I ate my own fucking hand.
Six
The hit list: Anthony. Why? Because not only had the fucker dumped be, but he had the nerve
to send Joanna a fucking Facebook message. Who the does that? Only crazy people contact
the ex’s family to complain after a breakup. He wanted to smear me in the eyes of my family.
Even I, a cannibal, know insanity when I see it.
Although ‘family’ is a strong word when discussing Joanna. She was around before I
was, but only as a foster child—I was actually adopted. Technically, they are my legal
parents and her foster caregivers.
So now this bitch wanted to meet me. She was going to come to my flat, but I talked
her into meeting me at Botanic Garden. Joanna was not enthused about that. Even this
morning she texted me asking to meet at my flat because it was ‘a bit wet out.’ I said no.
Meeting at mine meant she wanted to sit down and have a deep talk or something. My
flatmates could not hear that.
You and me and the devil makes three.
Fuck. She brought the devil child. Why would she bring Taua if she wanted a serious
talk? Every time I saw that kid he had more crusted snot around his nostrils. Honestly, he has
had a cold for three years now.
I tried to make myself seem enthused about her hug, but my joints became steel rods.
There was nothing relaxed about it.
“Good to see you, Christof,” she said, fake smiling. We both were.
Taua stood behind her, eyeing me suspiciously. Children could sense evil.
“It’s your uncle,” she said, embarrassed.
The snot-nosed being and I exchanged a look. I was not his uncle and he was not my
nephew.
Updated hit list: Joanna, Taua, Anthony. So… things got a little out of hand and now I was
buying a steak knife at Salvation Army so I could more efficiently kill Anthony.
Turns out Anthony had sent a message to Joanna with concerns about my mental
health. She said she was ‘worried about me’ and that she thought I should come stay a few
days with her. My anger was not directed at her, but the asshole who had put me on her
watch-list.
I had to beat her to death under an antique streetlamp and then rolled her body down
the slope into the foliage. I would be lying if I said having a bite did not cross my mind, but I
was saving my appetite.
Taua: the loose end. He was on the flying fox at the playground. Not many other kids
were around given most the equipment was damp, so he—and his wet bum—got as many
rides as he wanted. I walked him back to the quiet road. He was hesitant to follow me into the
trees, but I could not drag him or he would scream.
I strangled him instead. Beating a child to death was unnecessary. Their skinny necks
would make them succumb to asphyxiation quickly. Actually, Taua had a chunky neck. A
lazy child who loved to gorge those thirty-cent sour lollies by the bucket load. Meanwhile,
his mother adored cheap wine. Like mother like son, I guess.
The Salvation Army dude glanced my hands as he handed me the receipt. My knuckles were
battered up from killing Joanna. I was also wearing a white patch under my thumb to cover
up that previous self-inflicted wound. I had told people I had torn open my hand in a cycling
fall, but I refused to let anyone get an actual close look at the damage.
I bought a wood-handled steak knife and a slightly bent-out-of-shape fork. The fork?
Less suspicious. In the eyes of the cashier, I was just a poor student buying utensils to eat a
steak with. Being bruised up and just buying a knife would be slightly alarming.
Alright, I am a cannibalistic madman; I am not stupid. So, two people are dead in the
bushes at the Botanic Garden. I had to work out how much time I had to kill Anthony and
then get out of New Zealand. All three murders were bound to be discovered. Joanna and
snot-nose were likely to be found within a few days. She did not work—no problem there,
but perhaps Taua’s school would grow concerned. That, and the Botanic Gardens can get
packing with tourists. A couple kids rolling down the slope were bound to stumble upon them
once the weather cleared up.
I was going to give myself two days. I had a plan for Anthony and if I could get on a
flight to anywhere Australia I could go off-the-grid from there. Livin’ down under deep in the
Outback. It seemed doable.
I knew where to find Anthony. I was ready. He was on the third floor of the Vic library with
his classics pals. They looked like a hipster study group. Three out of eight were wearing
quirky hats. One bitch had a beret and two dudes were wearing flat caps—Anthony was one
of them. Who the fuck wears hats indoors? It is insane to be worried enough about fashion
that losing the hat indoors will ruin the whole outfit.
I had the sign in my bag… and I will get to that. I had printed it off last night and put
it in a clear file to keep it safe. It had to have a certain degree of both spontaneity and
professionalism to seem genuine.
They had stationed themselves in the back corner near the vending machines. There
were plenty of arrangeable seats around, but most of them were sitting on the floor. Anthony
sat above them on an orange ottoman, MacBook in lap. I sat where I could not see him
further down between the shelves, but within view of my other target. Now it was a waiting
game. It could be a long one, but luckily a mug was next to him. Anthony was the kind of
fuck who did not bring a keep cup, but rather an actual mug for his takeaway teas. It had a
homage to Greek vase paintings going around it, but instead it was figures lined up for a
coffee shop. Of course he had this cup. It embodied everything he was. He went to Pandoro
every Tuesday before his shift at Unity. Anthony reeked of bourgeois pretension.
I checked the Stuff website as I sat against the metal bookshelf. I had continually checked
since what had happened yesterday. There were no reports of an incident in the Botanic
Garden… yet. There would be. There had to be. Two bodies in a tourist destination would not
go unfound.
Did I feel bad about what happened? A complicated question. I certainly felt regret. I
had really fucked-over my life by losing it on Joanna. She had not even fought that hard.
Perhaps shock had the better of her or the first time I had smacked her head against the
pavement had put her out of it. She had tried to say something. I cannot for the life of
remember what it was, but I had punched her in the mouth and she shut up after that… except
for some gurgling.
Fuck. Fuck. It was time. I stayed dead still as Anthony headed for the bathroom. He did not
see me, let alone glance behind him. I had to move now.
I stood close to the door to the bathroom as I rummaged through my bag. People were
walking around further down the walkway, but none payed attention.
OUT OF ORDER
Please use toilets further down
A bit of blu-tac and bam! A perfect setup. Then I slipped into the toilets myself.
Nearly lost my shit when some other guy bumped into me as I walked in. We both
smirked awkwardly and he went on his way. Hopefully he did not notice the sign that had just
magically appeared outside.
Anthony was in a stall—as expected. He was shy about his dick. It had a black mole
on it. He told me that he stopped using the urinals when some junior nurse told him he
needed to get it looked at. It was fine, but he hated people to take double-takes at his dick in a
public bathroom.
I felt the handle in my cargo pant pocket. I was ready. I had to be quick and I had to
make sure he did not scream.
He stepped out of the stall, rubbing his nose. Ew, Anthony, wash your hands first! He
glanced at me. His eyes widened slightly. There was nothing to be afraid of… yet.
“Hey,” I said flatly, standing in front of the door—his only escape route.
Anthony’s expression shifted to passive. He was going to try and play it cool. A nod
was the gesture of recognition I received before he got back to washing his hands. He took a
while to wash them. Perhaps he was trying to busy himself as he waited for me to move out
of the way. That was not going to happen.
“So I met with my sister yesterday,” I began. “Apparently, you sent her a message?”
“Hah, yeah. I did,” he said muttered, flapping his hands around to get rid of some of
the water as he went for the paper towels. “Just told her I was worried about you.”
“You called me a paranoid schitzo.” He stopped wiping his hands in the paper towel.
Now he knew that I had actually seen the messages he sent. “You really shouldn’t have done
that,” I continued in a sinister tone.
“Well,” he looked to be losing his calm façade as he accidently missed the bin for the
paper towel. “I was using those words in a clinical manner, not a colloquial one. I was not
calling you crazy, I was telling her I’m worried you are, like, mentally disoriented.”
“And when the fuck did you get that psychology degree to boot with your classics
one?” I asked in a pitched voice. I would have to be more quiet to not draw attention. “Who
the hell goes to someone’s family over Facebook and tells them that they tried to bite your
penis? Why would you tell my sister that?”
To reiterate: she is not my legal sister, but I needed to call her that to reinforce my
emotional standpoint.
He ran a hand uncomfortably through his hair. Anthony had been dumb for shittalking
me despite the fact we still went to the same campus. We were bound to run into each
other, calculated or not. He should have been better prepared to be cornered like this.
“I’m, like, genuinely worried about your mental health,” he said.
“It’s not your problem.” I grasped the knife. “And you should not have tried to expose
me to my family.”
“'Expose you? What do you mean exp—”
The classics boy shut the hell up when the steak knife came out. I saw his shoulders
tense. He looked at the knife, my eyes, and then the door. He was going to try and barge pass
me. It would not end well for him.
Anthony hurled at me and clasped my wrist as I tried to bring the knife down into his
chest. The tip was scratching at the emblem on his jacket. Fuck, he was stronger than I had
expected.
“What the living fuck?” he grunted.
He took hold of my neck with his spare hand and squeezed hard. I got backed up
against the door, still trying to get the knife into his chest. One hand trying to stop his choke,
the other trying to kill him. Then the fucker started kicking.
We were making plenty of noise now. Suddenly Anthony released my throat. I eased
briefly, and he pried the knife from my hand, scratching my already-injured palm as he did
so. I winced.
There was an odd moment of dead silence between us when I felt something pierce
my stomach. Anthony, classics bitch Anthony, had stabbed me!
“Oh fuck,” he gasped, stepping back. The knife was still in his hand, but now it had a
streak of blood.
He was more horrified than I was. I cannot say I felt it. It was more of a numbness. I
gently prodded the area with two fingers, bringing them back up to see the blood.
“Jesus fuck! What the fuck?”
The stabbing was less of a shock to Anthony than me sucking the blood off my own
fingers. He looked nauseous.
“It’s you! It’s fucking you. The cannibal freak!”
My eyes darted up.
He froze like a deer in the headlights as I charged at him. He stepped back, but the
stall door fell open. He stumbled onto the toilet and I launched.
The screams would raise some alarm. The Vic security would be called. Why did
Anthony have to be such a bitch about getting his cheek bitten?
I was forced back by the second plunge of the knife. This time it hurt. I had to back
away from the pain. It looked as if I had been double tapped by a gangster.
Anthony stood up, cheek a little gnarly now that some skin was missing. He looked
down at me as I scrambled across the floor.
Damn, Anthony had some rage! The fucker kicked me. I had already been stabbed
twice now, no point in kicking a dead horse.
“Fucking. Crazy. Faggot. Bitch,” he snarled between kicks.
I liked this Anthony. This Anthony would have been fun in the bedroom. We could
have avoided all of this if he had been wild like me beforehand.
So, at this point someone checked what was happening in the toilets. An Indian guy stuck his
head in—saw Anthony kicking the shit out of me—and slipped away again.
Anthony stopped his onslaught and glanced to the door.
“So,” I began cockily, ignoring the shrieking pain, “who is the fucking-crazy-faggotbitch
now?”
He stepped back. He put it together. I was bleeding badly and a witness had seen him
kicking me on the floor. I did not plan this. It was too lucky to even be possible to plan on.
“Shit,” he whispered.
He did not know about the bodies of Joanna and Taua. He did not know how deep of
shit I was in. He did not need to know.
“I’ll tell them it was you,” he said shakily. “This, and all that cannibal shit.”
“Go for it. I’m sure they will love to hear it from you.”
“I can guarantee you won’t get away with any of this. They’re gonna muzzle you,
fucker.”
He was right. I would not get away with this now. I got that. Perhaps the plan had
never been to succeed, but rather screw-over Anthony enough to feel satisfied even at my
own cost.
“You won’t be getting away with anything, either,” I assured him, panting. The
injuries were taking their toll now. “I think our witness will make sure of that.”
Anthony glanced back at the door, thinking that the Indian dude would just magically
appear again.
He slumped down against the stall wall. He was thinking the same thing I was:
running would be too suspicious. Only a criminal would run.
“You know,” he began, setting the knife on the ground. “The good part of me wants
you to get put in a mental hospital so you can get the treatment you desperately need. But,
then, there’s this other part of me that wants to watch you get ass-raped to death in prison.”
“Your kind words bring me much comfort, Tony,” I said with a feigned smile. “I like
that you will get to watch me be raped to death… given you will be in prison too.”
“It was self-defence.”
“You’re the one with the knife. Or should we pop down to the Pipitea campus to
double-check your case with the law students?”
Anthony would have a defence case. I would have to work on my plea for insanity.
He thought I was crazy, I thought I was crazy, surely the jury would too.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked after a few moments of silence.
I shrugged, too tired to answer.
“What? You eat a girl and try to kill me and you just… kinda… meh?”
“Meh. Nothing better to do.”
I flinched as he got up. The knife remained on the floor, but I now knew how good of
a kicker he was.
“Fuck you, Chris. I hope there’s a hell just so you can go there.”
Oh, atheist Anthony, there is a hell. Satan’s been giving my brain tasters of it.
He got out of the bathroom. He would not be going far. Perhpas back to his classics
friends. Security were going to be swarming here, followed by the police.
I slumped, facing the stalls. My eyes were getting blurry. I felt tired, but really my body was
trying to cope with the wounds.
Pretty sure I was not dying… seventy-percent sure. I think I would know if I was
dying. Stabbing is survivable if none of the crucial organs are hit. I would survive. I would go
to hospital… and then jail, I guess.
I pressed my hand back into the wound, wincing at the pain. Sucking the blood off my
fingers, I did question where it all went wrong. Killing that girl? Eating my hand? Fucking
Anthony? Probably that. If I had not done that then he would not have had to kill Joanna and
I would not be lying here, stabbed. Yep, this was still all Anthony’s fault.
Perhaps I should have stuck to killing women.


Created May 27, 2017 - Listed