Who's up for Dinner?

CW: violence, implied cannibalism

“You should have some,” Old Man Marcus said to me. I barely managed to make it out past his slobbering around the bone. I always hated sitting next to him during these, even when I was a little girl. Whenever he ate he’d make a mess of everything. At his age, shouldn’t he have learned himself some manners by now? Never made much sense to me why he couldn’t behave like the rest of us, and even Mother noticed it too but she kept sitting him at our table anyway.

“He’s got no family,” she said to me once, “Have some compassion, for goodness sake.”

I turned away from him. Even if it weren’t time yet, I didn’t want the sight of him ruining my appetite. Usually the scratching of everybody’s utensils would calm me down, but today was different. The hall was way louder than it tended to be. I guess it’s ‘cause today’s my eighteenth, but still, I weren’t expecting so many people to turn up. Father paraded me around earlier, showing me off as the first in my generation to make eighteen, but the whole thing just made me more nervous than a convert.

Surely I’d be scolded for it later but I just couldn’t help myself. I twisted over the back of my chair and ignored the familiar creak it gave at the unexpected shift in weight. It gave me a small wobble as some kinda form of protest, making me use both my hands to steady myself. Now steady on my crow's nest, I scanned over the hall to see if I could find my Chance anywhere. He’d told me he’d be here for me tonight but I still hadn’t seen him. I know he’s a hobbler, but my Father would’ve still let him in right? Almost everybody we knew had something like that to them anyway, but Father especially hated the hobblers. Even if they’d done everything right when it’d been their turn, Father thought there ought to have been a reason He had chosen them to be a hobbler. Maybe Father was right, but I still liked Chance anyway. He had always been good to me during lessons, even after he’d become a hobbler. Every chance he got, he'd take my books under that crutch of his when we’d be moving classes just so I wouldn't hafta carry nothing.

He was sweet, for a hobbler anyway.

“Tessie!” Father whispered a yell across the table. I knew he'd not be happy. My body moved back into a more appropriate position without me having to tell it to.

I opened my mouth to rasp out a, “Sorry, Pa.” before falling silent again like I were meant to be. My voice weren’t usually so broken but it’d been some days since I’d eaten last to prepare for tonight. An empty stomach means you can’t throw something that's meant to be down, up, or something along those lines. That’s what Mother had been telling me all year, as if she'd predicted when He’d finally choose me. That's what Mother's always been like; pretending she stayed a step ahead of everybody, even Him. I wished she'd just save it for some other night. I'm the one gettin’ confirmed, it ain’t my fault He seen more faith in me.

Father’s face stayed frowning at me, even when his teeth fought with the bone to take off the piece of meat I had interrupted him from peacefully eating. I wished I were able to sit alone like Jennie had when she’d done hers, ‘cause seeing everybody eat like this was making things harder than they needed to be. ‘Course, watching is part of gaining self-control, but I just don’t get why I hafta suffer too. I’ve always been good, not like Jennie. Jennie, even without her good hand, could still steal half a plate from a starving child in the blink of an eye.

Old Man Marcus coughed out a huff, spraying part of the still bloody, not quite cooked liver he was still somehow working on and looked at me funny when I flinched back. My dress was fully white, why in His world wouldn’t I?

“A little stain won’t kill ya,” Little Luke mumbled next to me. The kid barely even knew what these ceremonies meant, and he weren’t even kinda close to getting his own, yet he still spoke like he’d been to a thousand of them. It was almost like Old Man Marcus had made a younger clone of himself, but I at least felt a little bad for Little Luke. He’d been my brother since his parents went a few gatherings ago, and the little thing was still pretending to not be sad about it so he don’t upset Him. It weren’t right to be upset about that kinda thing, but he was a kid. He’d learn eventually.

Mother never liked it much when we spoke to each other. Little Luke’s got a big mouth, if it weren’t obvious, and she don’t want his ideas spreading to me. “Just eat your food, Luke,” she whispered in that gentle tone she liked putting on around company. It was almost like His, but she never figured out how to be genuine like Him.

Little Luke didn’t listen to our Mother because he respected her or anything like that, just like how I didn’t sit next to Old Man Marcus ‘cause I wanted to make her happy. We just don't fight about small things anymore, not since He decided my ceremony. But today, I knew Little Luke were only going along with it because Mother would make him eat the rest of his food if he didn’t. He never got used to the taste of just about anything that weren’t made by his own Mother, so he'd just been waiting on Father to kick him back home. So, annoying and a picky eater, and even worse, everybody, even Reclusive Mrs. Winter, knew about Little Luke’s temper tantrums when he did have to eat. The whole fuss makes me wonder why He hadn’t called Little Luke for adoptive learning, but I guess he still got time to change and devote himself properly.

Either way, I'd been to enough of these ceremonies to know there weren't much time left until my turn to eat came. The utensil scraping got quieter. Those familiar clacking sounds of crutches being picked back up took the scratching's place. But what I noticed more than anything else was Mr Kane's rowdy kids. It never made much sense to me how a man even more than my own Father brought up little ones who dumped their leftovers on the floor. They were always doing nonsense like that, even when Mr. Kane made them lick it all up after. How the younger generation ended up so defiant never made a lick of sense to me. Maybe He had been changing what the younger generation’s daily teachings were like since I’d moved on. If that were the case, then it ain’t my place to say something about it.

“But it’s so wasteful,” I thought.

If He hadn’t intended for us to have that blood or the tongue that was still being pushed around Little Luke’s plate, likely to never be eaten, then He wouldn’t have made them for us to begin with.

“Theresa-Mae McKinley.” His voice, as serene as it is when I hear Him in my dreams, called out to me from the stage in the hall’s center.

That was all the signal I needed. Everybody fell silent, finally giving me some of the quiet I'd been begging for earlier. My nerves were too fired up to appreciate it though, but at the same time, my stomach rumbled in anticipation, in relief, for my fast to finally break. Almost everybody I ever knew was looking right at me, but still my eyes betrayed me when they scanned over the hall for Chance’s reassurance. He really hadn't come to see me, had he? Somehow, it still felt like he were here with me anyway. Without anything else to look at, my eyes decided to get back on track, and mapped out my path to the stage. I rose from my creaking chair and raised my dress above the spilled blood on the floor so it stained my feet instead. It weren’t pleasant or ideal, and even though I was long used to the smell, I could feel it staining my feet worse than the blood would. Of all times to be near Him, I began to wish it weren’t while I was smelling so bad.

He looked down at me from the stage and extended his hand to take the arm he had chosen for me. My face was probably as red as my blood-soaked feet, but He made no comment on it as He raised me to the stage. At least Chance weren’t here to see me blushing at Him like that. The haystack He laid out for us always looked more like a throne to me. Each strand of hay was golden and brown, and hand selected by Him for each ceremony. That was exactly who He was; thoughtful and diligent, for every last one of us. The privilege of laying my arm down on the glide sheet filled my stomach with so much pride that I was scared there’d not be enough room left for my meal and for the fear growing in there much too fast for me to stop it.

My head tilted down before He needed to force it to. I swear it weren’t intentional, but my eye’s corner spied out Mr. Bennett from a few houses down and his bigger son, whatever his name was, using all their strength to lift the handsaw. Surely I won't be much use in these ceremonies anymore after my arm's gone, huh?

“Theresa,” He stated my name as if it were more than just fact, and just as quickly as my regretful thoughts had come, they disappeared to try and taint someone less devoted than me. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I am.” My voice didn't have a crack no more. I'm sure that was His doing.

Mr. Bennett and his son stood before me, the handsaw shaking from its own excitement. It didn't matter if I weren’t able to see Him, I could tell I had pleased Him with my confidence.

“Then, dear Theresa, let us eat.”