I returned home and I unwrapped the meat from its packaging. It was as dark red as some rare tropical plant. I lifted the piece of meat from the counter, inhaling its scent. I imagined myself biting into it, my teeth chewing through the toughness as matter separated as if it were damp cotton.

I threw the sirloin on a dinner plate and crept outside into the backyard where I set it down behind a small tree near the fence.

Then, I waited.

Every morning I would go to the kitchen window and watch as little bugs swarmed over the fresh plate of meat, a dim cloud of insects collecting as if it were carrion’s shadow – tiny winged mourners to prepare and embalm the recently deceased.

Finally, at the end of the second day, I made my way out to the tree and half expected the plate to be gone completely thanks to one of nature’s little trespassers. But, miraculously, it was still there.

After swatting away some of the flies glued to the meat, I ferried it back into the kitchen and started to inspect my meal.

The sun had drained it of most of its color, little thatches of blight creeping along the edges of the uncooked steak. Ribbons of exposed tissue sprouted along the meat’s surface like slashes from a knife on human skin and burrowing deep inside the yawning crevices were white maggots.

I nearly retched at the sight.

But I thought of you and knew you would want me to go through with it.

So, I took a knife and fork from the cupboard and sawed through the uncooked beef. When I was finished, I speared the piece with my fork. It was then that I noticed a tiny maggot – no bigger than the tip of a dressmaker’s thimble – squirming across the piece of meat.

Even a carcass can carry life, so why not me?

Before I allowed my mind to wander too freely, I took a bite. It was like chewing on cooked rubber, little maggots squishing like jelly between my teeth as I gnawed.

I took another bite. And then, another.

I vomited once.

But I kept eating. Just like you told me to.

Finally, the plate was clear.

I swallowed, my whole body shuddering at the acrid taste.

Now, I suppose we wait. That’s all we can do.

Just think, everything could be different for me tomorrow. My whole life could change. I hope it does.

EMAIL FROM ZOE CROSS

Date: 08/07/2000

Time: 8:33 a.m.

From: Zoe Cross <crushedmarigolds@[omitted].com>

To: Agnes Petrella <agnes_in_wonderland_76@[omitted].com>

Subject: Re: It’s finished

Hey,

You weren’t on Instant Messenger last night. I waited for you.

Is everything OK?

I’ve been thinking of you.