He liked to stray through the trashcans like a cat in the night, but never in the presence of the moon when most cats were active, because then he'd get distracted and chase the cats

He liked to stray through the trashcans like a cat in the night, but never in the presence of the moon when most cats were active, because then he'd get distracted and chase the cats, wanting to taste their hairs rather than what he came for. It happened occasionally, where a cat would forget his instincts and venture too close, then all the lights would come on and both the boy and the cat would escape.

But tonight it was perfect: no cats, no moon to disturb him. The moon would always play its own tricks on him.

He slithered through the darkness, finding trashcans full of trash and not the prizes he desired. He got angry and began dumping the garbage on the streets, fingering through for disposable razors and freshly used condoms. But there were only banana peels and damp tampons (which he stored into his pockets for later) and chicken bones and crumpled tissues that looked like flowers secreting mucous rather than nectar.

He moved on, dissatisfied at the trash, tempted to use the loot in his pocket as a temporary substitute for tonight: he fingered the tampon, running his fingers over the moist cotton until it felt rough and he had clots of semi-dried blood crusted beneath his nails, the pressure making him smile.

He resisted to put them to his full use.

He carried on, still nothing (one tampon was already mangled and useless beneath his fingers) until the third block, where the trash was in his favour: both a razor and a condom, but only one of each, so now he is thanking the stars that he had brought the dampened tampons along with him to sustain his appetite.

First the razor (he got lucky; it was feminine and the pink lining was tearing so he wouldn't have to taste the colours. Lucky). He dragged the razor along his tongue, feeling the dull blade cut into him, the old hairs and peeled skin filling his wounds and stinging hard, but he liked it, and closed his eyes to revel in the burning and reminisce of previously familiar nights.

Once the razor was free of hair and skin so that only the delicate soap-stains remained he placed it under the welcome mat of the owner (it was the house closest to the trash so where else should it go?), replacing a key that never existed beneath the colourful sign and reached in the trash again, this time for the condom, which was still wet and heavy. It went on his tongue, like a band-aid, or more like a rubber sock, but it didn't matter because it felt good, and soothed the cuts from the razor, mingling with the hair and skin and some of the grime of the soap-stains that he'd scraped off with his tongue. He liked to feel the semen squish against his tongue, feeling warm and jell-o-like, and he thought yum.

Then it followed the clean razor under the welcome-mat, and he thought it would be something Jeriah would make a joke of. He smiled. His work here was done. For tonight. But he was still hungry so he walked home sucking on the tampons like a lollipop, and he was happy because he didn't have to hide them under anywhere and pretend they were keys. They were his. As they would be every other night.

Yum.