Dinner Ritual

Trigger warning: Mild thematic restraint and gore.

The alarm played the most annoying song I had ever heard, and I silenced it with a tap on the mouse pad. The clock on the wall confirmed it, and the grandfather in the living room paused its steady ticking to chime four times. When writing, time evaporated like so many dreams or nightmares, and 4 pm was my afternoon “wake-up.” I grabbed my empty water glass and stood.

Standing created a cacophony of creaks, groans, and clicks; I wasn’t sure whether it was all me, as I tended to stiffen up if I sat too long, the chair with its chipped caster, or the rickety desk in need of replacement.

The table under the clock, between the bookcases with my favorite authors to one side and my schlock on the other, held a carefully rolled joint for my next “cheat day,” and the custom case I’d commissioned for the whisky.

Lifting the bottle out of its padded velvet cradle, I took it and the glass down the hall to the bathroom.

I rinsed the tumbler with the Bruichladdich X4 whisky, carefully pouring the strong liquor back into the bottle, and set it on the counter next to the opened box of pills. A wand lighter ignited the residue, and flickering blue flames crawled up the sides and vanished. I doused the last of the fire with water, popped one pill in my mouth, and drank.

One down, seven to go.

The ritual was repeated until the pills were gone.

It wouldn’t get me drunk, but the taste helped steady my nerves. Oblivion had to wait for the “cheat day.” Besides, I had promised her dinner at 7 pm sharp.

I left the glass in the bathroom, but I carried the whisky back down the long hall, covered in framed copies of my book covers, diplomas, and the one wedding picture. The people in the warped and faded Polaroid tucked into the frame’s corner made me smile. They had looked so happy waving from the entrance to the crumbling castle. I straightened the frame before returning the Scotch to its case.

I heard the delivery driver before I saw him; a dusty old station wagon with a muffler held on by baling wire. It backfired when he killed the engine.

He’d offered to carry the groceries in for me — angling for a bigger tip, I’m sure — but I declined. I needed ingredients for the evening meal of calf liver and onions with bacon, wilted spinach, and brown rice with a bit of butter, not people clomping around my house. Keeping my blood healthy was paramount, and it didn’t matter if I didn’t like liver and onions. Besides, the bacon in the wilted spinach was cheating a little, and I’d use the bacon grease to fry the liver. I hoped it would help.

The seasoning was half the secret to making this dish edible, and although I wished it could include salt, it was serviceable. The rest was just as important; cook in the wrong pan or out of sequence, and no spice would save the meal. I’d had years to figure it out and get it right.

First, the coarsely chopped bacon was added to the cast-iron skillet over medium heat. I stirred it from time to time while mixing the flour and spice dredge, and when it was halfway cooked, I transferred it to a saucepan, and put the broken slices of white onion in the grease to saute. Two of the slices I chopped and tossed into the stockpot with the slowly crisping bacon. The trimmed liver was dragged through the flour mix and laid in the pan, then a splash of vinegar, a squeeze of lemon juice, and a touch of honey were added to the pot.

After three minutes, the liver was turned, and the rinsed fresh spinach was stuffed into the stockpot while the packet of Uncle Ben’s pre-cooked rice performed its slow, jerky dance in the microwave.

Everything finished at the same time.

I carried the plate and my glass of water to the dining room, casting a glance at the bottle of Riesling in the rack on the way.

I ate in silence until 6:30.

The dishwasher would take care of the dirty work, except for the cast-iron pan, which I wiped and hung back on the pot rack over the island, and I turned to take her dinner.

In the hallway, I popped open the grill over the air return. Behind the filter, a hidden latch was pulled, and I heard the click inside the adjacent coat closet. Wading through the coats, I pushed open the back wall and descended into the basement. I couldn’t hear the chains, so I knew without looking at my watch that I was not late.

I entered her room, brushing aside the heavy velvet drapes to find the light switch. The feeble, frosted thirty-watt bulb did little to dispel the gloom, but at least I could walk across the thickly carpeted floor to the locked crate without tripping.

Even after twenty-seven years, my hands still shook in time with my heartbeat, jingling the keys quietly as I fumbled for the correct one. Slotted into the Master Lock, the key snapped the hasp open when twisted.

I stepped back to the mark on the floor and waited.

The wait was the worst. I still had flashbacks to our honeymoon in that brief eternity. I had wanted to tour the castles of “The Old Country” instead of getting drunk and sunburned on a beach. These were regrets I stuffed down deep as the crate lid lifted.

She emerged as beautiful as the day we stepped off the plane in Bucharest, and I felt my heart lurch in its cage. I couldn’t help but worry that even if I could find and kill the monster that bit her — curing her — she’d hate me for the decades of captivity, for the young I felt forced to feed her to earn my “cheat days.” Or worse, that she’d find my fifty-nine-year-old self too disgusting to be with.

I decided long ago that if curing her led to her death, it would be a mercy for us both.

“Dinner’s ready, m’love,” I said as I extended my arm. “Bon appétit.”

She reached my arm at the end of her silver chains. Her eyes flashed with cold hunger as she fed, and I turned my head, unable to watch. I listened to the sounds of hungry slurping instead, timing her feeding to save myself.

When I pulled my arm away, she snapped once as her eyes softened and filled with tears.

“Stephen,” she cried.

“I know,” I said, blowing her a kiss. “I love you, Kari. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Same time.”