Monstrilio

by Gerardo Sámano Córdova

Draw drops of blood. Tasty but not enough. Teasing. I control myself. Respect our deal. Still, my dates seem thrilled. As if we’ve crossed over into naughtiness. We have sex. They say I’m good at it. Wild. Fun. They are satisfied. I’m left hungry.

I extend my arms, curl my fingers as if they were claws. I perform for him. He runs.

Why do you like biting so much? she asks. Feels like something I have to do. Huh. She slides the next novel in place. I walk away and stand outside the bookstore.

Uncle Luke lifts up an index card. Half cow, it reads, all for you. I whiff. Meat. Dead for a while. Still yum. I strip down to my underwear. Like I don’t want to get my clothes dirty. But really, a feast calls to be enjoyed flesh to flesh.

It tastes good. Not great. The taste of fear has gone. Also, it tastes like cow. Nothing wrong with cow. But a cow doesn’t dream. Not really. And if it does, it dreams of grass. Maybe open skies. A human dreams crazy dreams. Horrible dreams. Great dreams. Like flying. Or teeth falling. Or people long forgotten who pop up as if they never left. They dream of what they were and what they could become. And the dreams seep into their meat. Like a delicious marinade.

Okay? I ask. Mouth full. He attempts a nod. More tears flow. He wipes them. I swallow. You are very delicious. Thank you, he squeaks. May I bite again? He doesn’t answer. I wait. May I? He wipes tears. Like he shouldn’t be crying. But he cries more. Not loud. Ghostlike. Heavy. Like his pain isn’t only from the bite. Like it’s deeper. Marrow deep.

Papi asks if I want something to eat. I say I’m not hungry. Not hungry? He smiles. Like victory. Papi buys himself ice cream. We walk to McCarren Park. People stroll. Families play. Dogs. Picnics. Music. Like a nice day is all that matters.

I could write this memory down in my Santiago journal. My record of your memories. Like a house sitter keeping everything in order for when the original inhabitant comes back. Like in the story with the guy who throws up bunnies. He wanted to keep the house ready for his friend too.

I tell Mami and Papi that Sam wanted to be eaten. That I only took two bites to start. I was going to leave. But he asked me to go on. I don’t tell them that after a few more bites, he asked me to stop. I don’t tell them I couldn’t stop. Despite his screams, his weeping, his begging, his fighting. I was too hungry.

The only sweet thing I can stand are Fruti Lupis. And I don’t even crave them much anymore. Mami talks. Tries to sound cheerful. Like at the beginning of dinner.

Nonhuman. That’s what the tests said. The hairs! They’re nonhuman. Probably from a pet, it says, or a raccoon or skunk. Or me. Mami touches my face. Rubs my cheek as if I had a smudge on it. The important thing, my love, is that they have run out of clues. The case is probably going to be closed. Says so right there.