Dead Inside

by Chandler Morrison

If only she knew what she’d just had her mouth on. If only she knew where it had been.

You can’t put a label on me. You wouldn’t want to.

Still, there’s just . . . too much color in her face, too much light in her eyes . . . and I can feel the warm body heat radiating off her.

People don’t see me, and I don’t really see them. It’s better for everyone that way.

See, even creeps like me can have a sense of humor.

I want to savor this. The painfully boring blowjob has stirred up a thrumming lust in my loins, and it’s been weeks since I’ve taken a dead lover.

I copulate with corpses largely because it is all about me, about the meeting of my needs—my dead sexual partners exist only to bring me pleasure, and they require nothing in return.

The nurses’ screams increase in volume. The doctor keeps staring.

I can’t quite call it attraction, though she is attractive by all the standards otherwise foreign to me, and if she were dead, I wouldn’t be able to get my pants off fast enough.

Cannibalism really isn’t my thing, but there’s nothing wrong with getting a little kinky now and again.

For the first time in my life, a living being has piqued my interest.

It wasn’t until the second act of cannibalism that I realized what I was.” “What are you,” I ask her. “A monster.”

Other people have favorite foods, like pizza or apple pie or something, and mine is fucking aborted fetuses, for Christ’s sake.”

If only she were dead. None of this would be an issue. But she isn’t. She’s alive.

Might-as-well-be-dead isn’t the same as dead, though, and I have to keep telling myself this to keep an erection at bay. Christ, this is ridiculous.