Ever since my dad left, my mom has been serving up "special meat." She said that daddy was giving it to us and I should never look in the fridge in the basement. Needless to say, I got incredibly curious. One night, at around midnight, I snuck into the basement and looked in the fridge. What I saw there haunts me to this day.
It was none other than my father, with cube neatly sliced out of his torso and limbs. I screamed, waking up my mom. She instantly knew what I had done and ran up to the kitchen to grab her cleaver. I, on the other hand, was too stunned to move until my mom came into the basement. She was swinging the cleaver like a maniac, all the while trying to coax me to stop running. "It's okay," she goaded in that motherly voice.
After running in circles around the house many times, I realized my mom had locked the door at some point. Inevitably, she caught me. She pinned me to the ground and started chopping off my limbs, one by one. The next day, I was sitting in a wheelchair, all bandaged up. My mom once muttered, "Now you know," but I didn't question it.
I think I know where special meat comes from now.
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