| From Hand to Mouth By Corinna Underwood |
Gilbert sometimes had a difficult time distinguishing himself from his food. He loved to eat. His mouth
was not meant to be empty; his stomach was not meant to groan and yawl like an old ship tossed by an
angry ocean. Sometimes while he was waiting for his mother to bring him food, he would push his
bunched fingers in to his mouth and suck on them. Sometimes he forgot to suck and began to chew.
Each time a fiery needle shot into his flesh, reducing him to a whimpering wreck. He didn't like it, but for
a moment it made him forget about his all consuming need.
As usual he was watching the door, waiting for his mother. He had just woken from a deep darkness
from a place in which he had a vague sense of freedom that was never quite remembered. Still he
watched the door. He sniffed the air, but could smell only the stale odors of a distant breakfast. He
grunted and tensed, holding his breath, as rigid as his quivering body would allow. When his chest
began to hurt he exhaled, shooting out missies of bile. Still the door did not open.
Gilbert's slab of a forehead rippled into a frown then smoothed again like melted butter. He chewed
distractedly on one of his bed sheets and tried to make sense of his emptiness. He felt a vague sense of
wrongness about having to wait. His gut churned and complained. He hoisted his gelatinous body as
close as he could to sitting. The bed wailed on its reinforced frame and Gilbert's bile bubbled and swirled
like an active volcano. He began to pound his enormous fists against his chest, sending his body into a
quivering spasm of gummy flesh. His vacuous mouth opened wide and let out a primordial cry of helpless
desire.
In the kitchen, every surface was laden with empty bowls and plates, some gleaming fresh from the
dishwasher; others wore a coat of ermine fur. Today Angela was running late. She hadn't taken the
meat out of the freezer this morning, she hadn't rushed home from the restaurant as usual and she
didn't feel the usual bands of dread tightening her chest. She began to move around the kitchen with an
unusual lightness in her step. Today she could take her time because there was only one dish to prepare.
She placed the largest mixing bowl in front of her then began to chop vegetables. As she tossed the
chunks into the bowl she remembered watching her mother mix birthday cakes for Gilbert in the same
bowl. She didn't remember ever having a birthday cake, but Gilbert had always been special. She sighed
and her hands trembled for a moment as she added some chopped steak to the bowl. She didn’t bother
to cook it; she wasn't as painstaking as her mother. She glanced over her shoulder to where he mother
sat. It was okay she wasn't watching; the rocking chair was silent, still.
Angela could no longer recall when Gilbert had been a small boy. He had dwarfed their world for such a
long time; she could no sooner divest him of his enshrouding layers of flesh in her mind than she could
in reality. But she wondered sometimes if somewhere within, was a little boy, lost and lonely and waiting
to be free.
Over the years she watched her mother work her fingers to the bone to keep bread on the table, as well
as all the other staples Gilbert endlessly craved. Every day she would prepare a gargantuan feast for her
favorite son while Angel and her mother ate dry bread and sucked on cracked meat bones. Both she and
her mother worked at a restaurant, which helped. The manager, old Bart, had taken a liking to Angela
and allowed her mother to take home as much food as she liked in return for a nightly rendezvous in the
wine cellar with her daughter.
Things changed when Walter took over the restaurant. Angela's mother had been demoted to serving
while Angela was given a crisp new uniform and new reasonability in the kitchen. Under Walter's
calculated instruction, she began to grow. She restyled her hair, started wearing lipstick and began to
smile. Soon her face was permanently flushed from Walter's compliments and their rendezvous took
place in his apartment upstairs, not the wine cellar.
Though Walter had never met Gilbert—and never would—Angela confided in him on nights when she was
exhausted and the thought of going home to help her mother cook more food was an anathema. He
was very sympathetic and since then promised her that he would find a solution to her predicament. Her
mother continued as normal though the gourmet delights she brought home each night were lost on
Gilbert and never passed her own lips.
Angela had been drawn to Walter like a butterfly is drawn to an exotic flower. First, he introduced her to
the subtle sweetness of Turkish candies and lavender pastilles. Then, he seduced her with exotic fruits
dipped in chocolate and decadent sorbets flavored with alcohol. Before she had time even to find which
she liked best, he plied her with spiced meats and strange sea foods from distant lands. She soon
became transfixed by the connoisseur of exquisite culinary visions and could not resist his bombardment
of tastes, textures and aromas. As her relationship with food and Walter grew, her brittle figure had
gradually become softly rounded. She smiled at patted her plumping hips, proud of her new-found
voluptuousness.
Angela could no longer be bound to Gilbert as he was bound to his bed by the lead weight of his morbid
obesity. She took a sidelong glance at her mother as she tossed raw chicken into the bowl then let her
eyes rest on the jar. At first glance it was as mundane as any smoke-glass jar, perhaps containing
homemade jam, or relish. She left its wax seal intact as Walter instructed in order to keep the contents
fresh until she was ready to use it. For a moment she thought something stirred in its darkness then
smiled at her own naïveté. The special ingredient—Walter explained—was imported from Africa along with
the latest batch of herbs and spices that he was using for his new Ethiopian menu. Angela smiled again,
more broadly this time, looking almost beautiful. Her milky skin and chocolate eyes, glowed for a moment
as she pictured Walter in his restaurant, wearing the crisp chef's whites, his dark hands a blur over his
simmering creations as he stirred, grated and spiced. Her mouth began to water as she recalled how he
would suddenly still from ministering the pots and would slowly raise a spoon to her expectant lips. Her
eyes would close and she would be adrift on a sea of sensations inspired by mysterious destinations she
would never know other than through their exotic flavors.
Her face clouded as she began to mix in the gravy. Gilbert could never really enjoy food. It was too late.
Absent-mindedly she added salt and pepper. Gilbert never noticed the taste of anything that slid down
his gullet. He wanted only to sate his lust, to become engorged; only then was he happy and fulfilled.
Angela was different, for years she had lived on the edge of starvation, but now she had found someone
who could sustain her.
Of course, Gilbert couldn't be entirely blamed for his condition. Their father treated him harshly since the
beginning. Perhaps he didn’t mean to be a bad parent, perhaps he was being the only one he knew how
to be, but he made Gilbert suffer. While she got to sit on the father's lap, Gilbert had to lie on the floor
at his feet. Angela hadn’t felt to badly for Gilbert, he almost seemed to like getting the occasional kick
and was always pleased to be let out of his cage. And their mother remained silent and cooked and
cooked. Things had gone on for a long time that way before the accident.
Their father brought home a puppy for Angela. He won it in a card game. It was the cutest little ball of
fur she had ever seen. When the puppy came, Gilbert was relegated to the basement and the puppy
took his place. Gilbert had been unhappy with the arrangement, though no one really noticed at the
time. If it hadn't been for her mother, Gilbert probably would have been completely forgotten and ended
his days in the basement. But she kept him fed; nurtured his growing hatred for their father.
The only reason their father had to go down to the basement that night was because of the storm. The
power cut our in the middle of his boxing match so he had to go and check the fuses. Angela was
playing with Puff-ball and her mother was cooking by candle light as the thunder was rumbling into the
distance and suddenly the curdling screams shook the house. He mother told her to stay put, but she
crept behind her down the basement stairs and peeked around the corner. She could still see the father
lying on the floor, dwarfed by Gilbert who sat on his chest, with a string of jugular still hanging from the
stumps of his teeth.
After that Gilbert moved back upstairs and she had been a little afraid of him, but her mother said all he
needed was good hot meals. Gilbert never left his bedroom after that and Angela never entered in there.
Though she would help her mother prepare his meals she never asked Angela to take them to him and
she was relieved. Only once as she was passing his room, his mother came out, laden with trays and
Angela caught a glimpse through the open door; a glimpse of the monster that Gilbert had become.
She glanced over at her mother again. She needed the rest, after all these years of constant cooking
and running up and down stairs and having to feed Gilbert, change his diapers. The thought sickened
Angela and she was pleased that at least she decided to take matters into her own hands.
Walter was very understanding. Of course, she didn’t tell him everything, there was no need to explain
exactly how it was with Gilbert; Walter seemed to understand anyway. She had known all along that he
would help her do the right thing. She stopped stirring the food sludge and held out her left hand. The
diamond winked at her; a subtle, sparkling dream amid a garish nightmare. She slipped it off and put it
into her apron pocket then reached for the jar.
Gilbert didn't seem to notice a different person was bringing his food. He did notice that there was only
one bowl and he began to get agitated. But when Angela shoved the bowl in his fumbling hands he
buried his face in it and got on with business. He came up for air when the bowl was almost half empty.
A chunk of raw chicken stuck to his cheek and gravy dripped from his chins. He stared at Angela silently
for a long moment and she began to fear that somehow he could recognize her. Then suddenly he
grinned, showing discolored tooth stumps and bubbling, brackish saliva. She held her breath, pulled the
chair a little further from the bed and sat down. To make the wait bearable she focused on Walter and
the warm, aromatic embrace of his kitchen.
Suddenly Gilbert let out an almighty belch, so strong and fetid that Angela doubled over with a wave of
nausea. She thought about her mother sitting down below and was glad, so glad that she was setting
them all free. She forced herself back to sitting and now she could see that something was wrong.
Gilbert was staring at the slops remaining in his bowl, but he made no attempt to eat them. His mouth
moved in a silent monologue and he had a strange look of puzzlement on his face as though he didn’t
know what was in his hands or what he should do with it. He grunted suddenly, snorting food down his
nose and for a moment he seemed to find this hilarious and began to cackle raucously, sending a
fountain of gravy from his mouth, narrowly missing her face and shirt…then…he stopped.
Suddenly Gilbert sucked in a deep breath and his misshapen teeth snapped down on his lolling tongue. A
thick trickle of saliva slithered down into the folds of his chin. Then his eyes began to dart rapidly from
side to side, like shiny fish trying to escape the confines of their bowls. His stomach suddenly lurched
beneath the food stained sheet. He flung the bowl aside, tore off the bed clothes and looked down at his
hairless mound of a gut as though it could tell him what was wrong. He clutched at it feebly as though
he could contain it all in his useless hands then began to knead and stroke it like a faithful pet. His
mouth opened wide, his thick tongue floundered on his lips. He giggled childishly, again expelling a
shower of saliva. But this time it wasn't the meaty brown color of the stew, instead it had a crimson
gloss. He didn’t notice it until he wiped a hand across his slick lips, smearing it with his own juices. He
stared at his palm for a long moment, as though trying to recall where he had seen it before. Then he
held it out to Angela with a look of confusion. She lowered her gaze, refusing to recognize any humanity
in his pleading stare.
Suddenly his body jolted into an earthquake tremor. He clutched frantically at his gut. His head thrashed
from side to side, shooting bloody spittle in an arc around the room. Angela pushed her chair away form
the bed but found her legs were shaking as much as his and she could not stand. His milk-white belly
protruded from the bed like a quivering mountain of lard.
In a split second, both their gazes were pinned to the writhing mass of gut which was no longer smooth
and white, but was developing protrusions and as each once began more pronounced it took on an ugly
purple hue. The fingers continued to stretch at Gilbert's stomach until suddenly it erupted and he let out
the long, blood-curdling scream of a tortured animal. Five bloody sores now gaped in his flesh. Within
them there was a writhing movement as though his intestines where trying to break free of his body.
Each hole glistened darkly as blood welled in its center then was sucked back inside. Gilbert continued to
writhe and scream while Angela clutched at the arms of the chair, unable to take her eyes from the
unknowns that tunneled beneath her brother's flesh and drank greedily at his juices. She did not have
to wait long to see what horror incubated within his body. From each wound slowly squirmed a fat,
eyeless grub, the rich color of organ meat. They each raised their smooth, pulsating heads and wavered
for a moment as though sniffing the air then simultaneously they opened disproportionately large maws,
encircled with needle-sharp teeth and began to tear through his layers of flesh and fat.
Angela could only watch, transfixed by the visceral smoothness of his organs, how similar they looked to
the ones she had watched her mother cull so many times from chickens, venison and lamb. Then
suddenly his intestines a stench of fetid decay swamped the room as the voracious sacs of jelly bit down
deeper. She held her breath and tried to think of Walter's kitchen, warm and waiting as each finely-
toothed mouth feasted hungrily on Gilbert and he shuddered in agony. His scream was an almost silent
gurgle now. Blood bubbled from his mouth to his chest, saturating the shreds of his pajama shirt. His
eyes—which had been squeezed closed as though he could make this horror disappear—now opened
wide. They swam in her direction and paused. For a moment she thought she saw something like a
mixture of resignation and relief. Then they rolled back into their sockets and Gilbert was still, except for
where the parasitic worms still feasted on his flesh. His eyelids fluttered shut and Angela breathed again.
Then she gasped suddenly as one eyelid popped open. In place of its glassy orb was a viciously fine-
toothed mouth which tore and sucked at the surrounding puffy flesh. Then Gilbert really began to come
undone.
The maggot-monsters quickly grew fat on their meal, churning through the remains of his gut. Steadily
Gilbert's body began to collapse in on itself until clean, white bone shone through; the meager frame
that supported the weight of years of over-indulgence. Angela was able to stand now, but shakily. She
stepped back behind the chair and gripped it with claw-like hands. The six creatures, which had once fit
in a jar the size of a tea cup, shared Gilbert's former bulk between them. They had sucked the fatty
tissue from Gilbert's body, chewed the gristle of his eyeballs from his skull, devoured the soft meat of
his organs and now came the cracking and grinding of bone, the slurping of marrow, until all that was
left of Gilbert was a fine layer of grey dust and a few stains on his shredded sheets. Angela glanced at
the clock. It flashed at her in a crimson mockery. Only twenty minutes had passed and yet a lifetime had
gone by before her very eyes.
Now the creatures tore at the bed linens as if to draw out the memory of the taste of Gilbert. Their blind
faces came up for air, weaving and sniffing for more flesh. Angela released the chair, but her hands
remained clawed at her sides. Slowly, silently she stepped backwards towards the door, hoping they
were unaware that another meal was only a few feet away. The glistening, engorged bodies pulsated; the
razor-edged maws chewed air and sought something more substantial, until suddenly they clamped
down upon each other and the frenzy of slurping and gulping recommenced. Having no control over their
blood-lust, they gorged on their bedmates until only two remained. Angela reached behind her and felt
the cold brass of the door knob in her hand as the remaining two insatiable monsters locked onto each
other head to tail and it was impossible to tell where one began and the ended. Finally they had neither
strength nor means to continue. They twitched reluctantly then lay still, locked in an infinite embrace.
Angela pulled the door open and stepped back into the hall, closing it behind her. She followed the smell
of stale food back to the kitchen and reached into her apron pocket. With the glistening diamond in place
on her finger she slipped on her coat. A last glance was at her mother who sat in the rocking chair, silent
and still, guardian of the kitchen her glazed eyes could no longer see. Angela licked her dry lips and
tasted freedom. She had to get back to the kitchen, Walter was waiting.
was not meant to be empty; his stomach was not meant to groan and yawl like an old ship tossed by an
angry ocean. Sometimes while he was waiting for his mother to bring him food, he would push his
bunched fingers in to his mouth and suck on them. Sometimes he forgot to suck and began to chew.
Each time a fiery needle shot into his flesh, reducing him to a whimpering wreck. He didn't like it, but for
a moment it made him forget about his all consuming need.
As usual he was watching the door, waiting for his mother. He had just woken from a deep darkness
from a place in which he had a vague sense of freedom that was never quite remembered. Still he
watched the door. He sniffed the air, but could smell only the stale odors of a distant breakfast. He
grunted and tensed, holding his breath, as rigid as his quivering body would allow. When his chest
began to hurt he exhaled, shooting out missies of bile. Still the door did not open.
Gilbert's slab of a forehead rippled into a frown then smoothed again like melted butter. He chewed
distractedly on one of his bed sheets and tried to make sense of his emptiness. He felt a vague sense of
wrongness about having to wait. His gut churned and complained. He hoisted his gelatinous body as
close as he could to sitting. The bed wailed on its reinforced frame and Gilbert's bile bubbled and swirled
like an active volcano. He began to pound his enormous fists against his chest, sending his body into a
quivering spasm of gummy flesh. His vacuous mouth opened wide and let out a primordial cry of helpless
desire.
In the kitchen, every surface was laden with empty bowls and plates, some gleaming fresh from the
dishwasher; others wore a coat of ermine fur. Today Angela was running late. She hadn't taken the
meat out of the freezer this morning, she hadn't rushed home from the restaurant as usual and she
didn't feel the usual bands of dread tightening her chest. She began to move around the kitchen with an
unusual lightness in her step. Today she could take her time because there was only one dish to prepare.
She placed the largest mixing bowl in front of her then began to chop vegetables. As she tossed the
chunks into the bowl she remembered watching her mother mix birthday cakes for Gilbert in the same
bowl. She didn't remember ever having a birthday cake, but Gilbert had always been special. She sighed
and her hands trembled for a moment as she added some chopped steak to the bowl. She didn’t bother
to cook it; she wasn't as painstaking as her mother. She glanced over her shoulder to where he mother
sat. It was okay she wasn't watching; the rocking chair was silent, still.
Angela could no longer recall when Gilbert had been a small boy. He had dwarfed their world for such a
long time; she could no sooner divest him of his enshrouding layers of flesh in her mind than she could
in reality. But she wondered sometimes if somewhere within, was a little boy, lost and lonely and waiting
to be free.
Over the years she watched her mother work her fingers to the bone to keep bread on the table, as well
as all the other staples Gilbert endlessly craved. Every day she would prepare a gargantuan feast for her
favorite son while Angel and her mother ate dry bread and sucked on cracked meat bones. Both she and
her mother worked at a restaurant, which helped. The manager, old Bart, had taken a liking to Angela
and allowed her mother to take home as much food as she liked in return for a nightly rendezvous in the
wine cellar with her daughter.
Things changed when Walter took over the restaurant. Angela's mother had been demoted to serving
while Angela was given a crisp new uniform and new reasonability in the kitchen. Under Walter's
calculated instruction, she began to grow. She restyled her hair, started wearing lipstick and began to
smile. Soon her face was permanently flushed from Walter's compliments and their rendezvous took
place in his apartment upstairs, not the wine cellar.
Though Walter had never met Gilbert—and never would—Angela confided in him on nights when she was
exhausted and the thought of going home to help her mother cook more food was an anathema. He
was very sympathetic and since then promised her that he would find a solution to her predicament. Her
mother continued as normal though the gourmet delights she brought home each night were lost on
Gilbert and never passed her own lips.
Angela had been drawn to Walter like a butterfly is drawn to an exotic flower. First, he introduced her to
the subtle sweetness of Turkish candies and lavender pastilles. Then, he seduced her with exotic fruits
dipped in chocolate and decadent sorbets flavored with alcohol. Before she had time even to find which
she liked best, he plied her with spiced meats and strange sea foods from distant lands. She soon
became transfixed by the connoisseur of exquisite culinary visions and could not resist his bombardment
of tastes, textures and aromas. As her relationship with food and Walter grew, her brittle figure had
gradually become softly rounded. She smiled at patted her plumping hips, proud of her new-found
voluptuousness.
Angela could no longer be bound to Gilbert as he was bound to his bed by the lead weight of his morbid
obesity. She took a sidelong glance at her mother as she tossed raw chicken into the bowl then let her
eyes rest on the jar. At first glance it was as mundane as any smoke-glass jar, perhaps containing
homemade jam, or relish. She left its wax seal intact as Walter instructed in order to keep the contents
fresh until she was ready to use it. For a moment she thought something stirred in its darkness then
smiled at her own naïveté. The special ingredient—Walter explained—was imported from Africa along with
the latest batch of herbs and spices that he was using for his new Ethiopian menu. Angela smiled again,
more broadly this time, looking almost beautiful. Her milky skin and chocolate eyes, glowed for a moment
as she pictured Walter in his restaurant, wearing the crisp chef's whites, his dark hands a blur over his
simmering creations as he stirred, grated and spiced. Her mouth began to water as she recalled how he
would suddenly still from ministering the pots and would slowly raise a spoon to her expectant lips. Her
eyes would close and she would be adrift on a sea of sensations inspired by mysterious destinations she
would never know other than through their exotic flavors.
Her face clouded as she began to mix in the gravy. Gilbert could never really enjoy food. It was too late.
Absent-mindedly she added salt and pepper. Gilbert never noticed the taste of anything that slid down
his gullet. He wanted only to sate his lust, to become engorged; only then was he happy and fulfilled.
Angela was different, for years she had lived on the edge of starvation, but now she had found someone
who could sustain her.
Of course, Gilbert couldn't be entirely blamed for his condition. Their father treated him harshly since the
beginning. Perhaps he didn’t mean to be a bad parent, perhaps he was being the only one he knew how
to be, but he made Gilbert suffer. While she got to sit on the father's lap, Gilbert had to lie on the floor
at his feet. Angela hadn’t felt to badly for Gilbert, he almost seemed to like getting the occasional kick
and was always pleased to be let out of his cage. And their mother remained silent and cooked and
cooked. Things had gone on for a long time that way before the accident.
Their father brought home a puppy for Angela. He won it in a card game. It was the cutest little ball of
fur she had ever seen. When the puppy came, Gilbert was relegated to the basement and the puppy
took his place. Gilbert had been unhappy with the arrangement, though no one really noticed at the
time. If it hadn't been for her mother, Gilbert probably would have been completely forgotten and ended
his days in the basement. But she kept him fed; nurtured his growing hatred for their father.
The only reason their father had to go down to the basement that night was because of the storm. The
power cut our in the middle of his boxing match so he had to go and check the fuses. Angela was
playing with Puff-ball and her mother was cooking by candle light as the thunder was rumbling into the
distance and suddenly the curdling screams shook the house. He mother told her to stay put, but she
crept behind her down the basement stairs and peeked around the corner. She could still see the father
lying on the floor, dwarfed by Gilbert who sat on his chest, with a string of jugular still hanging from the
stumps of his teeth.
After that Gilbert moved back upstairs and she had been a little afraid of him, but her mother said all he
needed was good hot meals. Gilbert never left his bedroom after that and Angela never entered in there.
Though she would help her mother prepare his meals she never asked Angela to take them to him and
she was relieved. Only once as she was passing his room, his mother came out, laden with trays and
Angela caught a glimpse through the open door; a glimpse of the monster that Gilbert had become.
She glanced over at her mother again. She needed the rest, after all these years of constant cooking
and running up and down stairs and having to feed Gilbert, change his diapers. The thought sickened
Angela and she was pleased that at least she decided to take matters into her own hands.
Walter was very understanding. Of course, she didn’t tell him everything, there was no need to explain
exactly how it was with Gilbert; Walter seemed to understand anyway. She had known all along that he
would help her do the right thing. She stopped stirring the food sludge and held out her left hand. The
diamond winked at her; a subtle, sparkling dream amid a garish nightmare. She slipped it off and put it
into her apron pocket then reached for the jar.
Gilbert didn't seem to notice a different person was bringing his food. He did notice that there was only
one bowl and he began to get agitated. But when Angela shoved the bowl in his fumbling hands he
buried his face in it and got on with business. He came up for air when the bowl was almost half empty.
A chunk of raw chicken stuck to his cheek and gravy dripped from his chins. He stared at Angela silently
for a long moment and she began to fear that somehow he could recognize her. Then suddenly he
grinned, showing discolored tooth stumps and bubbling, brackish saliva. She held her breath, pulled the
chair a little further from the bed and sat down. To make the wait bearable she focused on Walter and
the warm, aromatic embrace of his kitchen.
Suddenly Gilbert let out an almighty belch, so strong and fetid that Angela doubled over with a wave of
nausea. She thought about her mother sitting down below and was glad, so glad that she was setting
them all free. She forced herself back to sitting and now she could see that something was wrong.
Gilbert was staring at the slops remaining in his bowl, but he made no attempt to eat them. His mouth
moved in a silent monologue and he had a strange look of puzzlement on his face as though he didn’t
know what was in his hands or what he should do with it. He grunted suddenly, snorting food down his
nose and for a moment he seemed to find this hilarious and began to cackle raucously, sending a
fountain of gravy from his mouth, narrowly missing her face and shirt…then…he stopped.
Suddenly Gilbert sucked in a deep breath and his misshapen teeth snapped down on his lolling tongue. A
thick trickle of saliva slithered down into the folds of his chin. Then his eyes began to dart rapidly from
side to side, like shiny fish trying to escape the confines of their bowls. His stomach suddenly lurched
beneath the food stained sheet. He flung the bowl aside, tore off the bed clothes and looked down at his
hairless mound of a gut as though it could tell him what was wrong. He clutched at it feebly as though
he could contain it all in his useless hands then began to knead and stroke it like a faithful pet. His
mouth opened wide, his thick tongue floundered on his lips. He giggled childishly, again expelling a
shower of saliva. But this time it wasn't the meaty brown color of the stew, instead it had a crimson
gloss. He didn’t notice it until he wiped a hand across his slick lips, smearing it with his own juices. He
stared at his palm for a long moment, as though trying to recall where he had seen it before. Then he
held it out to Angela with a look of confusion. She lowered her gaze, refusing to recognize any humanity
in his pleading stare.
Suddenly his body jolted into an earthquake tremor. He clutched frantically at his gut. His head thrashed
from side to side, shooting bloody spittle in an arc around the room. Angela pushed her chair away form
the bed but found her legs were shaking as much as his and she could not stand. His milk-white belly
protruded from the bed like a quivering mountain of lard.
In a split second, both their gazes were pinned to the writhing mass of gut which was no longer smooth
and white, but was developing protrusions and as each once began more pronounced it took on an ugly
purple hue. The fingers continued to stretch at Gilbert's stomach until suddenly it erupted and he let out
the long, blood-curdling scream of a tortured animal. Five bloody sores now gaped in his flesh. Within
them there was a writhing movement as though his intestines where trying to break free of his body.
Each hole glistened darkly as blood welled in its center then was sucked back inside. Gilbert continued to
writhe and scream while Angela clutched at the arms of the chair, unable to take her eyes from the
unknowns that tunneled beneath her brother's flesh and drank greedily at his juices. She did not have
to wait long to see what horror incubated within his body. From each wound slowly squirmed a fat,
eyeless grub, the rich color of organ meat. They each raised their smooth, pulsating heads and wavered
for a moment as though sniffing the air then simultaneously they opened disproportionately large maws,
encircled with needle-sharp teeth and began to tear through his layers of flesh and fat.
Angela could only watch, transfixed by the visceral smoothness of his organs, how similar they looked to
the ones she had watched her mother cull so many times from chickens, venison and lamb. Then
suddenly his intestines a stench of fetid decay swamped the room as the voracious sacs of jelly bit down
deeper. She held her breath and tried to think of Walter's kitchen, warm and waiting as each finely-
toothed mouth feasted hungrily on Gilbert and he shuddered in agony. His scream was an almost silent
gurgle now. Blood bubbled from his mouth to his chest, saturating the shreds of his pajama shirt. His
eyes—which had been squeezed closed as though he could make this horror disappear—now opened
wide. They swam in her direction and paused. For a moment she thought she saw something like a
mixture of resignation and relief. Then they rolled back into their sockets and Gilbert was still, except for
where the parasitic worms still feasted on his flesh. His eyelids fluttered shut and Angela breathed again.
Then she gasped suddenly as one eyelid popped open. In place of its glassy orb was a viciously fine-
toothed mouth which tore and sucked at the surrounding puffy flesh. Then Gilbert really began to come
undone.
The maggot-monsters quickly grew fat on their meal, churning through the remains of his gut. Steadily
Gilbert's body began to collapse in on itself until clean, white bone shone through; the meager frame
that supported the weight of years of over-indulgence. Angela was able to stand now, but shakily. She
stepped back behind the chair and gripped it with claw-like hands. The six creatures, which had once fit
in a jar the size of a tea cup, shared Gilbert's former bulk between them. They had sucked the fatty
tissue from Gilbert's body, chewed the gristle of his eyeballs from his skull, devoured the soft meat of
his organs and now came the cracking and grinding of bone, the slurping of marrow, until all that was
left of Gilbert was a fine layer of grey dust and a few stains on his shredded sheets. Angela glanced at
the clock. It flashed at her in a crimson mockery. Only twenty minutes had passed and yet a lifetime had
gone by before her very eyes.
Now the creatures tore at the bed linens as if to draw out the memory of the taste of Gilbert. Their blind
faces came up for air, weaving and sniffing for more flesh. Angela released the chair, but her hands
remained clawed at her sides. Slowly, silently she stepped backwards towards the door, hoping they
were unaware that another meal was only a few feet away. The glistening, engorged bodies pulsated; the
razor-edged maws chewed air and sought something more substantial, until suddenly they clamped
down upon each other and the frenzy of slurping and gulping recommenced. Having no control over their
blood-lust, they gorged on their bedmates until only two remained. Angela reached behind her and felt
the cold brass of the door knob in her hand as the remaining two insatiable monsters locked onto each
other head to tail and it was impossible to tell where one began and the ended. Finally they had neither
strength nor means to continue. They twitched reluctantly then lay still, locked in an infinite embrace.
Angela pulled the door open and stepped back into the hall, closing it behind her. She followed the smell
of stale food back to the kitchen and reached into her apron pocket. With the glistening diamond in place
on her finger she slipped on her coat. A last glance was at her mother who sat in the rocking chair, silent
and still, guardian of the kitchen her glazed eyes could no longer see. Angela licked her dry lips and
tasted freedom. She had to get back to the kitchen, Walter was waiting.
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