Flesh and Blood

Sensitive Content Warning: This story contains (mildly) unsettling themes including mental health and violence/gore.

He knew immediately it was human.

No second-guessing. No two ways about it.

It wasn’t anything discernible by the standard methods. Taste. Aroma. Mouthfeel. The delicately sliced morsel had been altered just enough to tick all the usual boxes. It was something else. Something intuitive. A sensation that danced through his veins like adrenaline, sending tingles through his whole body and standing the hairs on his arms to attention. A feeling of, dare it be said, familiarity.

Eager to avoid contact with the host, his eyes drifted to the charcuterie board on the table. The display of brightly coloured savouries was nothing short of off-putting. Nuclear green Sicilian olives. Garishly vibrant strawberries. Jaundiced Jarlsberg that churned his gut.

All of it was inedible. Painted and varnished. Under strict instructions not to touch anything from the base board, what stood before him was a prop and nothing more. The only safe-to-eat samples sat higher than the rest, on a two-tiered glass display. The lower layer held a non-toxic selection of cheeses, crackers and pâtés. The top dish, however, was reserved for the crown jewels.

The petite rolls of cured meat that had made her famous.

The viral cooking sensation and star of ’Cherry’s Charcuteries’ analysed his face as if it were a 16th Century oil painting. She read every change of expression with frightening intensity. Unaware of her own shifting appearance, the exuberant ‘influencer’ demeanour that she began filming with had transitioned to one of fervent enthusiasm.

He returned her gaze, ever aware of his dilated pupils. He hoped she hadn’t notice but something told him otherwise. The ecstasy in her eyes, perhaps. It looked about as pure as that of his own.

“Thoughts?”

The plastic smile returned to her face. Her darting glance to the iPhone, encircled by a harsh ring lamp, reminded him he was being watched. Live streaming, as he believed they called it these days. He donned his own charming grin and began the prepared spiel. A solid minute of gushing praise. His closing line couldn’t come quick enough.

“Honestly, it’s…”

He faltered. The sentence echoed in his mind. He’d been practicing it in the mirror only a few minutes prior. It had flowed fine then but now something was stopping it from escaping his lips. Something from the depths of his subconscious. Mustering skills from his time as a television chef, he recovered quickly. He cleared his throat and finished his conclusion with another well-rehearsed grin.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted.”

He let slip a subtle breath of relief.

“Really?”

Her response came as a shock. Not for its speed, but for the air of a hidden meaning. The inflection felt almost accusatory. He felt his smile fluctuate, cheeks dropping ever so slightly. His brow wanted desperately to furrow but he held it off, thanks to a combination of willpower and Botox.

His external stability masked well the chaos that was forming within. A wave of memories surged up from the void. Having mastered the art of repression, they were swiftly quelled, but a handful slipped through. A small white aircraft, a Cessna. The familiar faces of his old film crew. An expanse of rusty sand dunes. Fleeting images that he reassured himself were common knowledge and as such, were of no importance.

He shook his head and replied.

“I don’t know what your secret is, but I can see why you’ve taken the world by storm. I imagine everyone is wondering just what it is that–”

She cut him off mid-sentence, severing his attempt to steer the conversation.

“Quite the compliment, especially coming from such a prestigious member of the media. I’m positively touched. I would’ve thought in your long career hosting cooking shows, you would have tasted… just about everything.”

It was the pause that caught him. The borderline-seductive glance she slipped him, with her pearly white teeth biting tenderly into her bottom lip, certainly hadn’t helped but the pause…

More memories returned from the darkness. The crash. Screeching metal, jarring pain and searing heat. Anger and blame. Arguments that turned physical. Decisions made in the name of survival. He coughed, fighting back tears and trying desperately to form a sentence. All he could manage was a meagre whisper.

“What are you doing?”

She turned abruptly to face the camera and shifted back into the sugar-sweet yet vacuous internet personality.

“Well, there you have it my charcuterie cuties. Marcus Matheson, the TV chef and legend himself. Another satisfied customer, left in awe by Cherry’s Cured Creations. And speaking of…”

As she led into yet another paid sponsor segment, her voice faded. A hand on his shoulder drew his attention to the member of her crew who guided him away. Nauseated by regret, he cursed himself for having returned to the spotlight. The offer they’d made was ludicrous. He should have known better. Should’ve remained off grid. He wanted to run. To board a place and hide away in some remote corner of the world. But he knew full well it was too late for that.

Left alone in a makeshift dressing room, his whole world became a blur. His vision descended a swirling mess. Breathing became laborious. He squeezed his eyes shut but his brain just kept digging up more memories. Leaking through the dam he’d built up so well all those years ago. The rescue. The aftermath. Investigations. Accusations.

How did you survive the crash when everyone else perished?

How did you keep going on for so long?

Why did you bury the deceased?

The only thing worse than all the goddamn questions were all the goddamn lies. Five years he’d held it together. Suppressed the memories so far down they could never be found. Nobody could know the truth if he didn’t know it either. But now it all came flooding back.

Nobody perished in the crash.

I did what I had to do.

I didn’t bury anyone…

The dressing room door opened, breaking his downward spiral. As she entered, his vision cleared and he glanced up at her in confusion and shame. The look he received in return was one of satisfaction and lust. Strangely enough, there was comfort to be found in it.

Closing the door behind her, she held out to him the top tier of the display. The sight of the juicy, rolled-up delicacies made him shudder, though not in disgust. He dropped to his knees as the final wave of memories revealed themselves. The cravings. Longing for just one more taste. Late nights scouring the deep web. That one fateful dinner, seven months after his rescue.

And little brother Francis, his own… flesh and blood.

“I do hope you’ll keep my secret ingredient just between us.”

Her voice, playful yet commanding, brought him back once more. Holding both strong desire and a sense of danger, it introduced calm to the chaos. As she approached him slowly, immorality at hand, his mouth began to water. Remaining silent until she stood directly over him, he came to the realisation that his fate had already been sealed. He nodded dumbly, in reply to what he knew was never a question.

She looked down upon him, in possession of all the power. Selecting the plumpest roll of cured human flesh between her long, sharp nails, she dangled it over his open mouth.

“Good boy.”