content

The mellow heat of the small room like an oven firing up. He sighed contentedly. The taste of his breakfast was still on his lips, the satisfying juicy crunch sound as he sliced through the peppers with which to spice up his meal. He leaned back into the wooden chair and closed his eyes. The green glimmering in the kitchen light. The crunch and then the thud as the knife cut through vegetable and hit the chopped up chopping board. He could have done it on the marble countertops. But he didn’t want them to have scratches. Not even after so many years. How long had it been? A decade? No more. About thirteen years. Wow. Lucky number thirteen. The odd buzzing sound the bottle made when it was not closed properly. He felt happy, joyous. This was worth it. This made all of it worth it. The exercise. The glistening, gleaming hairy chest as he got off the treadmill. He would much rather run outside but he couldn’t. Not anymore. Not after… well, he couldn’t. The exercise. He could see the shy abs poking out, he wasn’t sucking in, but the light was good. Modesty was key, after all. And then breakfast. He opened his eyes, took a deep long breath of air. It rushed through his lungs, heart pumping out blood lazily. Endorphins through his head. A light buzzing. Almost as if he were high. Almost. He leaned back again, stretched out his arms like an angel and then put them behind his head, nestling his neck into his hands. What a day. What a world. What a life. A smile crept up the sides of his lips, curling around the two week old stubble. At what point was it no longer stubble, he wondered. This was looking a lot like a beard. And it had began to itch a lot like one too. Or maybe a beard didn’t itch. Maybe that’s when it was no longer stubble. Two week old whatever. Chopping the onions, purple and white, juicy, and noisy came to his eyes, behind the closed lids. And the tomatoes. Thick, luscious. Gleaming. The juicy garlic. He was trying new recipes. What really mattered was the base ingredient. And cheese. Cheese really helped. But not sprinkled on top. No, none of that stuff. Baked in. Fried in. Salt. Acid. Fire. Heat. Sight. Sound. Smell. Taste. Touch. His tongue. It watered. He opened his eyes, and wondered if there were more. He knew full well there wasn’t. He would have to go out and get more today. He sighed. It wasn’t always easy. He wasn’t worried about getting caught. Smile, not too much, or frown. They wouldn’t care or know. Decently expensive car. Well dressed. They were terrified of stopping you. And if they did, they would generally check the trunk. Idiots. So easy to fool. Never look through the tinted windows. They wouldn’t bother. But it was fine. He wasn’t a threat to their lives. Not yet. He didn’t like how they tasted. The bottle made another sound. He opened it, and smelled the crimson liquid sloshing around. Still fresh from slaughter.