by Anitra Marie

Created on: June 28, 2010

I've always wanted to taste human flesh.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a freak. Or at least I don't believe I am. I'm a short, slightly round in the middle bachelor guy who lives in a cheap apartment complex run by a cranky landlord. I earn money to pay the cranky landlord by working as a checkout bagger at Kroger's, though my lifelong ambition was to become a chef. I say "was" because being accepted to culinary school, as unlikely as it was before, is now pretty much eternally screwed due to the mess I've gotten myself into.

Of course I'd never admit to wanting to taste human meat under normal circumstances. The only time I ever brought it up was in the company of a pair of guys that I tentatively call "friends" and only then because liberal amounts of alcohol were involved. Tony and Mark used to live two doors down from me until the cranky landlord kicked them out. Every once in a while, usually when none of us had anything better to do, we would all plop down in beanbag chairs in front of my TV, pop a few beers, and watch movies. One time, the beers had made me stupid enough that at the end of Tomb Raider I blurted out, "Wonder what Angelina Jolie's kidneys taste like?"

Without saying a word, Mark scooted his beanbag, which had been right next to mine, off to a safe distance in case I should launch myself at him in ravenous hunger. All Tony did was raise one eyebrow and mutter, "You sick, man."

I miss those guys. They didn't understand but they were fun to hang out with. They'll probably be the only people in the world who won't be shocked by my story. Might even sympathize a little. I hope so.

The night it happened, I'd had to work late at Kroger's. I came clomping up the stairs to my room about 2:30 in the morning, ate a box of Chicken McNuggets just to give my stomach something to do, then stumbled like a zombie into my bedroom. I was exhausted, and I suppose that affected my judgement. I doubt I would've had the guts to do what I did otherwise.

I had begun getting undressed when the shots rang out. One black sock was balled up in my hand ready to be thrown, the other had already been lobbed in some random direction. I counted at least three shots from very close by. I was up and running out to see what happened before my brain had time to stop me.

Sprawled at the base of the first floor landing was my cranky landlord, only not so cranky anymore. He was lying face down in a pool of blood. I could see where three bullets had exited his back. Apparently,

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