Dead Inside

by Chandler Morrison

I think of the way she looked at that dead baby last night.

“Why are you naked.” That’s the only question I’m able to force past my lips, despite the existence of other, more obvious, inquiries. Like, “Why are you eating that dead baby,” or “What the fuck is going on here,” or “Don’t you at least want some sauce to dip that in, or something.”

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.

I raise my eyebrows again. “I. Have. Sex. With. Dead girls.” I glance awkwardly at the security monitors as if there would actually be anything of note on them, and even if there was, I’m too distracted to be able to notice it. “What do you mean, ‘remarkable.’” Her smile widens. “I mean, it’s even stranger than what I do.” I blink at her, take off my glasses, and rub my eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far,” I say evenly. “You eat babies.”

A montage of all the little things I’d ignored, all flashing through my head to the accompaniment of the Saw theme music that plays whenever the plot twist is revealed at the end of each movie.