Bones and All

He’s getting old. Never has a blooming romance, born out of the ingenuity and naiveté of starstruck lovers awakened in him a reaction quite like this. Heretofore, he has never been impressed by unabashed faith, by furtive side-glances and clandestine smiles reserved for those who know to actively look for them.

Maybe it’s a reaction to the ennui of repetitive patterns, of days that feel like carbon copies of each other; waking up at noon, he drinks a cup of nicotine-infused chai—the taste of which he abhors, the way it clings to his throat as if uncertain if it wants to enter his body or be breathed out. He takes his daily-allotted pills, a whopping twenty-four capsules, since it’s not just nutritious sustenance he’s ingesting, but also medicine for the impressive array of ailments he’s acquired in recent times. He then rides the bus to the outskirts of town, checks in at the Institute, gets into his warden uniform, and goes about the night shift, with all the arcane responsibilities it entails. 

Tonight, as he’s moseying around the sterile, slab grey corridors and enforcing curfew, he lingers at the door of Unit Fourteen.

“Will you leave the door open, Nate?” FH1525 whisper-asks with a look of bashful mischief. 

She’s a beautiful specimen. Why they make them so attractive, he’s wondered for a long time. Not one whose position at the Institute warrants knowing many details, he’s formed different theories over time. His guess is as trivial as they come: beauty sells, so the image of a perfect fat-to-muscle ratio, with skin that radiates health, is probably the equivalent of a Pedigree certificate. 

Also, the meat off attractive people’s bones probably just tastes better. 

He’s oftentimes wondered how much trial and error it took to figure it out—that all specimens must be thin, but just so, and not too muscular either, as that makes for a tough chew. They must be completely hairless everywhere, including the head, unless otherwise specified, and with body odor comprised of perfectly balanced doses of pheromones. 

And beautiful, conventionally so.

He’s never tried it, human flesh, and has never had any desire to. 

But the Institute doesn’t cater to the common man. Its endeavors are in the luxury segment, addressed to people ensconced in so much wealth that the mere idea of humanity becomes a blurred line, dependable only on what one is willing to pay for it. 

People who—when the virus hit and made all animal meat inedible and future consumption non-viable, and the Government enforced laboratory-constructed meal plans consisting of pills packed with nutrients and all matter indispensable for survival—decided they would not forego the pleasures of entertaining guests of the same caliber with a bountiful dinner table, cutlery and Italian-imported china included. 

So, the industry steered towards what became the next big thing in gastronomy: hearty portions of medium-rare Caucasian male brisket, for example, and other such “delicacies.”

Nate takes a few steps inside FH1525’s living quarters, stopping short of her bed. 

“You know I can’t do that. We must be careful now. You don’t want to jeopardize everything, do you? Just hold tight for a couple more days, and then…” he trails off, replacing verbal conclusion with a knowing smile. 

“I know,” FH1525 says and smiles impishly in return. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Both our hearts.”

Hearts that would undoubtedly have ended up in a truffle-infused tartare, or some other similar dish.

“Try to get some sleep, ok?” he replies.

Further down the hall, MH1135—her beau, the other heart beating in love, is likely buzzing with the same mix of anticipation, apprehensiveness, and trepidation, counting the hours until what has become a three-person plan will be set in motion.

Indeed, Nate has become old and sappy, for he’s decided to help them escape, a plan so reckless and dangerous it can only be catalogued as a miserable attempt at suicide. The plan involves what he hopes will be an effective-enough disguise, some camera manipulation, and a pervasive death wish. 

For they will be found, and they will certainly pay for it with their lives. Nate is aware of this, painfully so. He’s also painfully clear on the fact that at least two of them have an expiry date as is, so if he’s going to aid and abet a modern-day, bred-for-consumption Romeo and Juliet, it might as well be now. 

As soon as the other night shift employees catch on to the irregularity of the night, security will act quickly; his only wish is that they react, just slowly enough to grant FH1525 and MH1135 at least a couple moments of freedom.

Nate briefly wonders if the lover’s foray into the external world, unsterile and full of biohazards, will render their meat unsellable, or if there’s some special circumstance in which a former billionaire, finding himself at the shorter end of his fortune, might still indulge in his disgusting tastes, albeit with significant risks. Or perhaps they’ll be disposed of unceremoniously and grudgingly counted off as operating losses. There’s no precedent, so his guess is as good as anyone’s. Nobody’s been so foolish as to try it before. 

He’s never contemplated suicide, never had a particular desire to leave this world, despite how rotten and cruel it has become. But neither does he have a particular desire to remain in it. So, if he’s to die, it might as well be in the name of something as inherently human, and so exquisitely rare as innocent love. Bones and all.