I gnaw bitterly at the celery stick held in my hand, my eyes ogling the chicken leg Andrea gorges on with manners too poor for this exclusive party.
"Appetizer?" a squeaky voice offers from behind me. I spin around, taking a look at the plate the short bald man holds on his shoulders.
"No thanks," I reply, declining the miniature hamburgers. Andrea accepts as much as she can hold in her other hand, the one without the chicken leg, and the caterer shoots her a disapproving look before turning away.
I temporarily hate her for enjoying such fine meat knowing I can't have any. As tempting as it is, I can't allow myself to eat meat. Not because I feel too sorry for the cows or pigs, but because one bite of another mammal re-wires my brain so I'm not . . . myself anymore. Another personality takes over me completely, a plan to kill tattooed in my mind until I pass out after a few hours or so and wake without a memory of what I've done. It runs in the family.
I've only consumed meat twice in my life, the first time craving into temptation and the second by accident. I've managed not to kill anyone yet. My mother says I should be really thankful for that and to keep it that way. I tell her I will.
"C'mon," I say to Andrea, pulling her by the elbow. "Let's grab a plate."
After filling my plate with garlic bread, baked potatoes and perogies, we take the two only empty seats we can find, next to a friendly-looking old couple dressed in matching emerald colours. My stomach growling from watching my friend indulge in appetizers, I stuff two whole perogies in my mouth at once. I can just imagine my mom giving me one of her lectures about manners, how I should hold my knife in my right hand, fork in the left, and cut my meal into smaller pieces so others don't have to witness the state of food in my mouth.
"You're starting to eat like me," Amelia says, laughing. I nod in response, struggling to keep the contents of the perogies in my mouth as I chew, making her laugh even harder. The old man beside me sneaks a glance, and at first I think he's going to act like my mother but instead he chuckles. I finally manage to gulp the food down, reaching for my glass of water to help it go down.
"Can't blame ya," he says, taking a bite of his own perogies. "The bacon in these are delicious."
I hear the sentence repeat itself over and over in my head, his words bouncing off my skull in never-ending echos. His voice seems only to get louder, and for a second I fear this haunting sound will never leave my mind.
The bacon in these are delicious.
The world around me bends for a second, everything I'm seeing turning to liquid and morphing together. The glass of water slips from my hand, shattering into countless of pieces one wouldn't be able to fix with an unlimited supply of glue or time. The sound causes every head in the room to spin in my direction, the silence that comes with it louder than the disturbance I caused.
"B-bacon?" I stammer, my heart rate doubled since three seconds ago. He nods.
"Are you a vegetarian?" he asks, his bushy brows furrowed and head cocked to the side, trying to ration my behavior. I don't bother answering his question. I jump to my feet and sprint in the direction of the women's restroom, shoving a couple of people along the way. I storm into an empty stall and lean over the toilet, ramming my fist down my throat. I dig lower with my fingers, hoping it will do the trick. I've never tried making myself throw up before.
It's not working! How do people do this? Throw up, throw up, throw up!
Oh, I think it's happening. . .
I remove my hand, yet all that comes out of my mouth is stupid useless saliva.
No, no, no! I can't let this alter ego take over me, I won't let it. I'm not a killer. I will never be a killer. I refuse!
Just then, the bathroom door slams open. It's Amelia.
I hear her scream for everybody to get out. I stay myself long enough to see a woman in her twenties squeal in alarm and rush out as fast as she can in her six inch heels.
Then blackness.
***
I never really thought about it, but it's funny how many tears can escape your eyes although you never open them. I'm awake now, can feel the cool roughness of the ground beneath me, the wind traveling through my hair and sending chills down my neck. I must be outside somewhere.
What am I doing out here? Did I kill somebody? I'm not capable of that, am I? I don't want to think so. I'm not built very strong, don't own any weapons. The worst I could have used was what, a butter knife from the party? The strength of my weak arms? My uncoordinated legs? Perhaps I managed to injure someone, but to physically murder someone seemed unlikely. At least, that's the only way I can bear to think.
One thing I know about how my brain functions on meat is that it picks one victim it wants to kill, and only one. Except 'only' isn't the right word for it, a life being something I can never bring back. I'm not sure how it decides on the victim. It's like rolling a dice, I guess. At random.
Crap! What if I hurt Amelia? She was the only one in the room with me when I . . .
I blink open my eyes before I lose the courage to do it. I see I have collapsed in some back lane beside a dumpster. I rub my eyes, getting to my knees. I groan, suddenly realizing the pain in my back, probably from sleeping on gravel.
"You're up," a voice says. Amelia's voice. I twist my body to face her, relief spreading over me like a wave, relaxing my body at the sight of her alive and well. Unharmed. I engulf her in a hug, taking in her presence, thankful for her watching over me, staying with me when I've lost all control of myself. For making sure I'll be alright even if it means keeping awake until daylight, outdoors in brisk weather.
Pulling away from the hug, I ask the one question that's slowly been driving me mad. "Did I kill anyone last night?" She stares at me for a few seconds, unreadable, but her hesitation gives it away. My heart sinks to my stomach as if someone's pulling down on it, tears pooling my eyes. I'm horrible. Absolutely horrible. "Oh, who was it, Amelia?"
"The old man," she answers quickly, as if she speaks fast enough it will be as if it never happened. "The one who sat beside you at the party. You shoved him down the stairs. No one was looking. He banged his head stumbling on the way down."
I start bawling. The kind where you scream as you cry, when tears aren't enough to deal with the pain.
"They think he fell on his own," she says. "He was old, Lydia. You didn't push him very hard. You're lucky it was him, not anyone else. His time was coming, you just made it come a little sooner."
Whatever she's saying to justify what I did as excusable doesn't resonate with me. I killed a man. A kind, innocent man. I hate myself for it. Hate myself more than anyone I've ever met, feel it stronger than anything I've ever felt. I wonder what his expression was when he fell down the stairs, how many grandchildren he has that will miss him, if he saw it was me who shoved him.
"He . . . he had a . . . had a wife," I get out through my sobs. I cover my face in my knees, try to muffle the sound of my weeping. The man and his wife wore matching colours, managed to love each other their entire lives, something that's rare in this world. His wife must be devastated. "What do I do?"
I can see Amelia fighting back tears, staying strong for me.
"I don't know," she responds. For some reason, this calms me a little. Enough to turn my cries silent.
I guess that's the thing. No matter how much I regret it, no matter how many tears I shed, it won't bring him back. Won't undo what I did. Maybe I'll check up on his wife, provide some company. Someday get the courage to confess to her before the guilt eats me away, leaves me to rot.
Maybe someday I'll do the right thing.
