“Truly, Lily, you are such a help right now. With your useless ass paws with no thumbs, or larger body that can lift anything but your attitude, every day, in this fuckin’ hellscape. But oh no! You’re hungry. Nevermind that I can feel my chest tightening across my collar bones. Constricting the vessels below in the muscles that prevent escape from the gnawing feeling in your gut that you’re going to die, and soon. Nevermind that you are a fucking dog. Nevermind that Mom is a useless pile of…shit.”

“You gotta stop doing this to yourself.”

“I can’t help it. It’s like looking at a marquee in your head. Like there’s an announcer back there ‘NOW PRESENTING: SHE’S DONE IT AGAIN FOLKS, YET AGAIN A PROOF POSITIVE THAT LOVE ISN’T IN THE CARDS FOR THIS BRAT—MORE AT 8!’” I manage to croak through rubbed raw vocal folds.

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“Did you not hear me, punk? You can’t do this. I won’t allow it.”

“The fuck do you get to allow…?” I retort with a swipe of my sleeve accompanied by a toddler’s length of snail-trail snot.

“God,” he says. Gazing in my eyes as if he’s about to say something I’ve always wanted to hear. “...you’re so gross.”

The cleaver in my hand feels cold. I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember removing the chicken from my pack. I don’t remember preparing anything. And yet, there it lies in an array of viscera and carvings. Two breasts, two thighs and legs, two wings. A heart, liver, and pancreas simmering in a pan to my right. A gentle metallic pang wafts into my bloated nose. Iron, I recall.

Iron is supposed to be good for this sort of thing. I’m just not sure what this is.