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There is something beautiful in the act of eating. It soothes more than just the physical needs of his body, makes him feel content and at peace. He thanks the opportunities he was given to learn there was more to food than the dried out, tasteless slop he had as a kid. He can’t blame his parents for trying, but they didn’t make it easy to like mealtimes. The press of bodies around the table, the strict manners and expectations they had, and the truly awful food. He learned to eat quickly just to get away from it all. Then he just kept running, ran into and with the worst sort of people, until he couldn’t run anymore, until someone grabbed his arm and sat him down and taught him better.
Some days, he looks at his skin, at the ink permanently embedded in it, and sighs. What a stupid kid he was. Most of it is easily covered, but he knows it’s there and that anyone who sees them will inevitably have questions. He wishes he could wash them away, cover them up, maybe even carve them out. Maybe one day.
Until then, he has food. He has a world of experiences he can have for himself. He can take the time to savor the smoothness of well done drinks, the sharp texture of crispy fried foods, the depth and layering of soups and stews left to simmer for hours until everything is blended into a single complex taste. He can linger over teasing appetizers and hors d'oeuvres, let fulfilling main courses sit in his mouth and have the taste permeate every inch of it, can take his time dissecting desserts and see how all the individual components merge into the final product.
Bright acidity to freshen his tongue, heavy earthy flavors to ground him, spices that get him eager for more, sweetness that breaks up a meal, salt to tease new and deeper flavor from even the most basic of ingredients. He eats it all, basking in the simple pleasure of it. He wants nothing more than to have his fill and make it part of him, to ease that sometimes ache that he is missing something.
Then Murkoff comes.
Now nothing he eats is right. The food isn’t terrible, but it’s all wrong. He craves something. Something he’s never had before, but can catch glimpses of it in his memories. The strong flavors of black pudding and kidney pie, the wide variety of textures of offal, from creamy livers to chewy tripe and crumbly brains. His teeth itch to sink into that richness, hot and fresh from preparation. Nothing else will do, so he doesn’t bother with it. He can’t go back to choking down subpar food, not now that he knows there is better out there.
He drops weight rapidly, not eating and not moving much will do that to a man. The effort isn’t worth it unless he can enjoy it. Whatever feelings he had about his body before mean very little now as it as he wastes away, his stomach clawing against his skin from the inside out.
At some point, alarms go off and screams echo down the hallways. The sharp metallic tang of blood fills the air, poking at the hungry void inside of him and he wakes, searching for the source. The first corpse he finds is fresh and warm, blood still sluggishly seeping from the open wounds in the man’s torso. His mouth waters and without conscious thought, he plunges his hand into one of them, groping blindly for the man’s kidney. He sinks his teeth into the warm, wet, bloody organ, and moans, eyes closing in delight. The rich earthy bite of meat slides down his throat and the hunger inside him flares to life, needing, craving more. He finally knows what he’s been missing and nothing can stop him now. He needs to eat, to fill his aching belly, to find that elusive peace, to fill that empty space in him.
He isn’t complete without it, not any more.