Lean Meat

"Did your parents not let you have a pet when you were a kid, Dr Lecter?" Mason's hands skim over the bars of the self-contained cell. "Is that why you're keeping me down here? Am I your pet Dr Lecter?"

He laughs, a resilient grin spreading across his face despite what is now three days of imprisonment inside your homemade cage.

"A little advice," Mason leans up against the bars, meets your gaze. "You're meant to feed your pets."

And the sarcastic tone is laced with something else. It's subtle, but it's there. Fear.

You smile.

"But you're not my pet, Mason," you tell him. "You're my prisoner."

You turn your back on him and ascend the basement steps, ignoring whatever smarmy remark he hurls back at you as you shut the light off and lock the door. He has enough water to last him for at least the next two days.

You don't visit again until the fifth night. Mason shrieks as the lights spring on, cowering against the edge of the bed. His eyes finally come into focus and he looks at you now with a gaze infinitely more satisfying than before. The fear is no longer subtle, his gaze one of terrified desperation. His whole body is shaking now, legs pulled up tight to his chest and arms wrapped around them. The demon within him is rapidly fasting away.

"Hello, Mason," you greet him. "How are you this evening?"

Mason's ego momentarily betrays his hunger as he attempts to offer a sneer.

"I'm doing just fine," he replies, his voice weak with exhaustion. "You know, given the circumstances." He emits a hoarse, forced laugh and shakes his head. "What are you doing to me, Dr Lecter?"

"I would have thought that was obvious to you by now," you reply, a pause following as you wait for the smile to vanish from your captive's face. "I'm starving you," you inform him. "The depletion of food is now causing your body to source nutrition from within. Your body is consuming itself."

"Well, how very interesting," Mason scoffs. "What do you want, then? What does a guy have to do to get some food around here? You want me to suck your dick for a snack? I mean, hell, I guess you've talked me into it…"

"Your vulgarity offends me, Mason," you respond. "And I believe I've already informed you of my goal. I want to see you starve. To death."

His eyes bulge with fright. You watch as the realisation sets in and the final shreds of self-assured cockiness dissipate entirely, rendering him speechless. You hand over a three day supply of water through the bars and make your exit before he's able to find his words.

The eighth day arrives and you set out the table before his cell in silence. He no longer has the energy to question what you are doing, reduced to a wide eyed, desperate gaze as he tries to comprehend what is going on. His face has hollowed out now, cheek bones and jaw sharp and prominent, and his clothes have begun to hang from his frame.

"I'll be back once the meal is cooked," you tell him simply once you are finished setting up. You leave the lights on and return to the kitchen. Two hours should be a sufficient amount of time to allow him to grasp at a fictitious sense of hope, you decide.

You return just after 7pm with a plate of rare steak and asparagus, a bottle of Chianti by its side. And several minutes after you've set the table and sat down to dine, he lets out an almost inhuman wail. He musters up whatever energy he has left to crawl across to the bars, reaching out in desperation as he screams a mixture of pleas and profanity. You eat your meal in silence, permitting yourself to indulge in your captive's transformation, his power and piggishness starved away along with his flesh.

"I think I prefer you this way," you tell him upon emptying your plate, taking a sip of your wine as you watch the sobbing mess he has become over the course of the meal. "It's interesting. Even the most abhorrent creatures become human once deprived of their basic needs."

These nights go on for a further week, and by the fourteenth day, you have to let yourself into the cell in order to force water down Mason's throat. He's too weak to do this for himself now, and far too weak to fight against you. He moans in agony as the pangs of hunger consume him, and you cradle him in faux comfort, shushing him as you run your hands through his hair and rub his belly to soothe the pain. And even though he knows you're mocking him, he leans into you and begins to sob, desperate for any sort of relief. This, you allow him. He's going to die regardless.

"Mason, did you know, the human body has been known to withstand over forty five days of starvation?" you ask as you hold him. This only makes him cry harder, holding onto you tightly as he shakes his head. He mutters some sort of vague, pathetic plea for mercy. You place a finger to his lips to quite him. "Hush now. I'd recommend you save what little energy you have left."

The weeks go on, and soon enough, day fifty arrives. Today you let yourself straight into his cell, pulling up a chair by his bedside. Roused from his sleep by your footsteps, Mason turns his head to look at you. This is just about the only movement he is really capable of anymore. His breathing is laboured as you run a hand over his hollow cheek, and he's unable to protest as you lift his shirt up to reveal his famished frame. You smile, running your fingers across the thinly cased bones of his rib cage and hips, smoothing your hand across the surface of his horrifyingly concave stomach. He whimpers slightly at the sensation of your hands against his skin.

"Perhaps it will come as a comfort for you to know," you whisper. "I shall not be dining on you. I don't care for such lean cuts of meat."

But he's incapable of speech now, his glassy eyes becoming increasingly reflective as the life leaves him. You run a hand through his hair, marvelling at your revenge as it nears completion. And just before Mason's chest heaves its last, agonized breath, you plant a kiss on his forehead.

"Goodbye, Pig."