I dragged Dr. Timberland by the ankles. He slid easily inside, into the initial womb of life. I helped him sink lower; he floated to the top; only his head weighed him down, rolled uselessly along the bottom. With my fingernails, I scraped the dead skin off his back, enough to make a bland tasting terrine. Twice, Dr. Timberland attempted to sit up, and twice I was forced to submerge him.

In the broth, his skin adopted a yellowish hue like boiled chicken. I turned the cold water tap on so it would trickle down his feet. The effect I sought was obtained, chicken skin. I remained on my knees, spinning the liquid round and round with the ladle. His member rotated. I scooped it up. On the ladle, the chicken neck twitched from side to side, as beheaded fowl necks are known to do. I seized it, stretched it as long as it would go, tugged and twisted, yet it would not break; on the contrary, each time I let go, it shrank back into the pouch of skin holding the two gourmet lumps, constricting into a more stingy tidbit.

At last, my hunger was fulfilled with a final animalistic spasm; as promptly, my stomach was saturated not with fulfilment but regret. My face reddened in shame as I contemplated the limp form that had caused my countenance to undergo such wild perturbation. Dr. Timberland looked dead floating on his side, and the chicken fat around him had hardened into a greasy yellow crust. Though he was easy game, I was no detrivore. I resented his passivity and banged his head against the bathtub for it.

My hunger abated, Dr. Timberland’s home regained the familiar features of any home. At such an untimely moment, one can imagine how startled I was to hear the phlegmatic coughing fit of an elderly person. I could not tell if it was coming from an old lady or an old man; all I knew was it came from the other side of the house. I detected the muffled steps of slippers. Someone was moving towards me.

I hid behind an armchair. An elderly woman with white, thinning hair emerged in an ochre-stained bathrobe down to her ankles, and white gym socks up to her bony knees. She had Dr. Timberland’s fleshless lips, faded bleached blue eyes, milk white skin and frail build. She could not walk without holding onto the wall with one hand, and onto her forehead with the other.

“Stanley? Stanley?” Her voice was weak and needy.

The remorse I felt sharpened, gave me sharp pains in my guts. What could I say or do? I ran out, holding my own head with both hands. I didn’t close the door or look back.

Night fell, and the impulsive cries of birds and babies were replaced by the snickering of crickets. My hair clung to my neck, as did my hair dress to my body. I could go no further. I wandered into the garden of a hotel and dropped into the first lawn chair.