Chapter Thirty-Nine

I hate food, in fact, if I could never eat again, I would do that. I would never eat again because eating is ridiculously tedious, and because you never know what is in the food you eat. There are chemicals in vegetables, and chemicals in meat. I enjoy the act of killing but eating the kill makes me want to commit genocide. It just feels wrong. You kill for the thrill, not for the gluttonous indulgence, it's not right.

There are heaps of flesh on my plate, and I stare at it wondering what the animal was contaminated with. Just how much of animal is this mass of flesh? How much of it is animal and how much of it is chemicals? What chemicals? It is an endless equation, with what occurrence made this creature taste and look the way it is presented on my plate? I hate not knowing, and yet I'm always questioning. My whole life I just question and ask and wonder, and I'm never going to know truth.

I don't care about animals, I don't care about life or the moral aspect of veganism, but I can't, with dignity, eat something that once lived. It's hypocritical to my profession. It's a sign of weakness. A killer should not kill to eat, that defeats the purpose of killing with no purpose.

I picture the meat covered in worms and maggots, which would inevitably be its future, and I feel the maggots on my skin, because inevitably that is my future as well.

It is all a wonder.

I glance up and see the President, and the First Lady sitting across from me. They are eating in silence, not bothering to be socially polite. Mirea sits beside me, clearly as uncomfortable as I am, but most likely for different reasons.

I have conjured multiple different conversations in my head, but I don't bother actually committing to them because I know that if I were to speak now, and then get distracted, they would notice, because I'm bored and because I am a weakling who was too afraid to take the medication this morning.

Mirea kicks my leg subtly from underneath the table, which gathers my attention for the moment. She nods to my plate, telling me to eat. I don't know how to tell her I'd rather die.

I look around the room without any control of where my eyes land. I don't know what I'm doing, only that every piece of furniture, every color, every themed choice distracts me, and I hate it. There is a large stone vase sitting against the wall underneath a picture of some boring flatland, and I stare at the vase and imagine myself hitting someone with it. I can feel the blood and gore splatter on me, and the shocked face of my wife looking at me in disapproval and horror.

My wife. I glance over at Mirea, my mind now focused entirely on her. She looks uncomfortable tonight, but I know that is because of her humane morals that bother her as she is eating with the woman she is going to murder in five days. I stare at her dress, it was supposed to fit her perfectly, to show off every curve that she has, but she has no curves anymore. She barely eats, she's losing weight, and something is wrong, and I can't help but think it's because she is miserable living with me. I don't know how to fix that; how can I fix that? I try to buy her things, but she gets angry, and when I try to compliment her, she insults me, and tells me to go away. I enjoy her insults, I always have, but I cannot stand the fact that she cannot stand me.

I sigh, which garners me an annoyed look from Mirea, but I ignore her. "I would say this is an immaculate dinner, but that would be lying, and I'm only a liar when it's fun." I push my plate a few inches away from me. Every inch I am away from the abomination that they served me, the better I could breathe. "I'm eager to get the hell out of here, and I'm sure the both of you are eager for me leave too. I hope that you enjoyed your last dinner with me before I bathe myself in your blood."

"You're a sick man, Inanis." The presidents speak up, I can't say that I'm surprised by his words, it's not as if he has anything to lose now. Though, his boldness does not reward him dignity. He lost that when he pleasured himself to the pictures of children.

"I enjoy a good irony, Mr. President." I say, my voice casual, "Too bad your words will mean nothing when I slice your throat."

"I never liked what you do." He continues, and I'm beginning to think he wants to die, "I never agreed with it."

"Yes, well, it seems we have come to a standstill, as I'm not particularly a fan of men who lust over children." I sight yet again, "I can't seem to comprehend it, what is so appealing about the child body? Grown women are so much more exhilarating."

He glowers at me, "Fuck you."

"I apologize, but I don't fuck pedophiles."

"But I'm sure you'll force yourself on any woman who fears you. Just like Virtus." His voice twisted into a thick smugness that wasn't there before, "You're just as despicable as me. Don't think I didn't see the fear in your wife's eyes the night you announced your marriage. She feared you, and you forced her anyway."

His words give my mind a sense of clarity from all the distractions in the room, and like autopilot, my hand reaches for the steak knife, "You know nothing about my marriage. I am warning you, the ice is thin."

He turned to Mirea, not caring about my warning, "How many times has he forced himself onto you? How many times have you had to pleasure him against your will? You could have married someone you actually love, but he stole that away from you didn't he? He stole your freedom, your whole life."

"Like he said," Mirea speaks up, "You know nothing about our marriage."

"You're only defending him because he threatens you too."

I'm dizzy. My thoughts are swirling, I want to tell him that I may have forced her to marry me, but I was never expecting her to stay. I thought she would have run away by now, and I would have let her. She didn't, I don't understand her, but she didn't.

I feel a hand on my own, and I look down and see Mirea gently grabbing my hand, making me drop the knife that I hadn't realized I was clutching so hard.

If she were not here, I would kill him. I would kill him and I would enjoy every moment that the knife rips through his skin.

"You think you're so noble, Inanis." He continues, "But the fact is, you are just as bad as those you kill."

I swallow hard, forcing a professional ease in my voice, even though professional is the farthest thing I am feeling, "Well," I say, straining to smile, "What can I say? I'm my father's son."

"Your father was scum."

"My father is dead." I urge my hand to stop shaking from my rage and urging need to throw my plate at him, as I take a sip of wine, "Pity that you'll meet him in hell before I do."

There is a heavy silence in the room, and I stop caring about the right thing to do. "If that is all you have to say," I stand, "Then my poor hostage wife and I will be going." Mirea stands quickly and follows me out before he could say another word. I walk to the car in a careless daze, I don't recall even getting into the vehicle until it starts and we are well on our way back home.

I don't look at Mirea but I can feel her eyes burning on my skin, and I want to yell at her, I want to tell her to stop staring at me, and never stare at me again. She reaches out, and I feel her fingertips brush against my coat's sleeve, and it takes everything I have to not heave up the small bit of wine that I drank. I don't want her touch; I don't want her forced act of sympathy. I don't want her here. I don't want her married to me at all. I want no association with her. I hate every bit of her existence.

I am a liar.

"Inanis-" she begins, but I hold my hand up to silence her. We stay silent the whole way home. As I stare out the window of the vehicle, my hand reaches into my coat pocket without really thinking about it, and I pull out a small, single pill. I had put it in my pocket earlier due to my cowardice, and now, I simply do not care. Perhaps if I had taken it earlier like I was supposed to, the night would be different. My chest would not hurt so badly. My guilt would not be so insufferable.

I begin to put the pill in my mouth, but Mirea snatches it from me before I could. I try to grab it from her, but she opens the window not even an inch, and drops it out of the car.

"One more night." She says, and this time she is the one that avoids my gaze, "One more night before you take the medication."

"It is not your concern." I don't believe I have ever spoken to her so coldly. And yet, despite the fact that it would make any normal woman quiver in fear, she does not show any sign that it bothered her. I want to kiss her for her fearlessness. I am so in love with her bravery and careless personality that it's suffocating and makes me want to die.

"You are my husband." She says simply, her eyes moving to look out the window, "Everything about you is my concern."