My eyes flutter. My chest clenches.
Rosa, we’re having a banquet. You sit there, and I’ll sit here, and we’ll pretend my bedsheet is the tablecloth, okay?
Okay, I said, taking my seat.What’s on the menu?
The chef has prepared us a roast chicken! Do you like chicken, Rosa? I saw a picture of it in a book—
My stomach churns with self-hatred. Roiling with need and disgust. My hand trembles again.
Rosa, that’s private, she’d said, frowning as I uncrumpled a piece of scrap paper. I’d found it while stripping her sheets. It was a list, and I’d read the title and the first two line items before handing it back to her,my heart racing.
Things I Will Eat One Day, it read.
chikin
candy
I force myself to stare at the speared chicken on my fork, force myself to part my lips. I inhale through my mouth and worry I’m going to be sick. I feel my stomach pitch and I fight the compulsion, my chest heaving slightly.
“Rosabelle?” he says.
I look up, horrified to realize my eyes are swimming.
No.
I am dead inside. I’ve been dead inside for years.
“Hey—”
Die, I tell myself.
Die.
I force the piece of chicken into my mouth, force myself to chew it, force myself to taste it.
What’s it like, Rosa? Is it very delicious?
I hear the monitors from far away, the machines screaming as if through layers of fog. The meat feels strange in my mouth. Foreign. Soft. This is real chicken, I realize. Real meat from an animal, not lab-grown. It has a texture I haven’t experienced since childhood. My teeth seem brand-new to me, sharp. The flavors are too bright, too much. I heave, clap a hand over my mouth. Force it down. Spear another piece.
“Hey,” he says again, a note of panic in his voice now, “you don’t have to eat it—I just thought—”
Do you think we’ll ever get to eat real meat, Rosa?
I like the bread they give us and I don’t mind the porridge, really, but remember they gave us eggs once, and those came from a chicken, and one time they gave us milk, and that comes from a cow, so maybe—
I push the next piece into my mouth, knuckling through the nausea. My jaw is tired already, the repetitive motion robotic. My skin is heating and cooling, my hands clammy. A light sweat has broken out across my forehead. Pain wrenches my gut as I swallow.
I spear another piece of chicken.
“Stop,” he says, prying the fork out of my hand. He sounds different now. Scared. “You don’t have to eat it. I’m sorry—”
“I’ll eat it,” I say. My eyes are hot. Wet. I reach for the chicken with my bare hands, forcing another piece into my mouth. “I’ll eat it.”
“Rosabelle, stop—”
He grabs my dirty hands, forces me to look at him. Resolve trembles inside of me, shuddering up my throat. My face is damp. My heart is beating outside of my chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says desperately. His eyes are wild. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to—”
