There is a special kind of person that finds immense gratification in the consumption of joy. They wait patiently for devastation and hungrily descend on rotting bones. When their knives have been cleaned they convince themselves that their thirst for blood is rooted in a sincere concern. When the tears fall like fresh milk and the screams hit their flesh like spat-out seeds, they pull out their cups and lustily drink down the lachrymatory leak that your distress releases. Day by day, they grow louder and hungrier. Their appetite often gets the best of them, they try to lock you away, try to convince you that I am the danger.

They never considered what you were going through. How could they? They were only blinded by visions of your delectable end. I was the one that held your hand though you struggled under the knife. I was the one that heard your voice when you were screaming from the pain of the burn. I was the one that wiped away your salty tears. I felt your pain down to the very core of my being and I was forced to feast on its devotion, I was forced to watch as you were steeped in anguish. Yet they still called me the monster.

They call me the monster now that I’ve freed you from their burning judgement and salivating righteousness. Now that I’ve broken their plates and smashed their cups. Now that I’ve ruined the meal for them. Now that I’ve finally devoured you for myself.

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Keziah Todd is an English Literature student and a successful hobby writer. This is her first published work.