The blunt thud of a cleaver hitting a wooden cutting board echoes in her ears — the sound of the kitchen. She puts her hands under running water, sage-scented foam lathered on her palms, never enough to truly clean the filth that permeates her being. She watches the bottomless drain swallow the cloudy flow leaving her fingertips, just as she wishes to be consumed. She begs for purity. A blank slate. An escape she knows will never bless her. 

Behind the thick glass of the pantry lies an utterly extravagant display. The blood-red meat of a boar still clung to its skeleton hangs heavy. Raw and naked. The fattened feet of pigs are the shade of a sickly flu. White ducks hang from their necks, limp and wrinkled. Instead of silky feathers there is shriveled fat, peeling away slowly, curling in on itself. A row of mackerel, mouths agape in a petrified expression. An eerie stillness accompanies the disturbingly reflective array of scales. The glass, too, reflects. 

I. Appetizer

The slimy, glistening slick of oyster coats her middle and ring fingers, her own touch on the squirming mollusk surprisingly gentle. Its icy temperature collides with the heat concentrated in her fingertips. A chilling shiver — hedonic waves of soju forced down her throat. A rush of warmth; a chemical burn crawling into the pit of her stomach. A fragment of the relentless digits that dug at her mercilessly two months and three weeks ago, the date seared into her wretched brain. The musty smell of old motel carpet, the neon signs flickering like the lights of an induction. The blaring reds of headlights, the blaring reds of cheap wine bottles, a blaring red inside her head that she forcefully wards off. The man’s voice, a gluttonous cheese fondue that coats every inch of her body and fills her every pore with putrid stickiness. Burning pain between her weakened thighs, a skinned hen boiled alive; about to be teared limb for limb. A never-ending stream of acidic saltwater burns the flesh of her crimsoned cheek, pressed hard into the pillow. 

A single raw oyster, covered with torched parmesan cheese, its thick flavor countered with a trickle of pungent lime juice and served with thinly shredded bits of poultry. 

II. Main

Somehow the spineless legs of the octopus seem almost pitiful. It makes a meager attempt to crawl away from the wooden cutting board, sensing its imminent death. Her hands fumble around the slippery coating of the creature, but its thick arm coils around her to grip her forearm instead, suctioning around the delicate skin. The same lewd squeeze of a sweaty hand groping her — an ever so brief touch accompanied by unwavering humiliation. A permanent image of an animalistic smirk etched onto a grotesque face, her pounding heart and a retch she has to swallow. She pries the wet of the octopus off her arm, choking it down onto the counter and knifing at it with trembling fingers. The blade comes down in violent strokes, until only uneven chunks of crimson lie before her, soon they are drowned in boiling water.

A cacophony of minced garlic and onion draws out the tears she’s learned to suppress, the smell of cayenne peppers stinging her nose. Its intensity forces out a sneeze, disorienting her already unsteady body. Ashen pepper sprinkles into the bowl, reminding her of the falling ash of cigarettes. Surrounded by large figures towering over her, a vile smell that makes her choke, the clouding of toxic smoke that fills her lungs. Low chuckles that are almost as nauseating as the rod forced between her lips. An ignition, an abrupt inhale, a burning pain. Hysteric laughs that pound in her ears, the sound of her own coughs a mere echo in the distance. Abuse becomes routine. Her hand works mindlessly on the sauce, a murky brown with floating bits and pieces that create a dull splash. 

A plate of wilted lumps of octopus, suffocated by a pool of Spanish sauce—hints of red, green, and white floating to the surface. Parsley as a soulless decoration, doing nothing but distract.

III. Dessert

The soft sponge disintegrates between her rigid fingers, turning to powder and seeping between her knuckles onto the plate. She smears the pieces the same way she would lather foundation on her face, thick and heavy, a futile attempt to conceal everything. It becomes a burden, permanently weighing her face down as a reminder that this defines her worth. The load of makeup overpowering the beauty of anything she crafts, the crowd’s eyes glued to tired eyes instead of delicate fingertips. She blinks away clumped mascara as she stirs the gelatinous mixture of butter and sugar. The sweet smell only makes her completely sick to her stomach. The frosting emerges separated, uneven, colorless. 

Barely a slice of cake. Only a lifeless layering of crumbs, bread, and coating that overflows and eats at each other. Endlessly messy, an obscenity that does not belong on a restaurant table. 

It is served anyway. She ceases to care.