Meat

fiction:

Meat

By Chris Coleman

Father says Meat does bad, so I have to watch. I watch since beginning. There is no if. Only watch.

Once I saw Meat kill Meat. It dragged a knife across it. Sagged and stopped. I saw so I told Father and he sent Brother to take Meat away. I don’t know where. Father doesn’t tell. I think Brother takes Meat away forever. I think Brother takes Meat and turns it into dead. I think Brother takes Meat and turns it into more Brother. Father doesn’t say.

Once I saw Meat grab another Meat and not let go. Meat screamed and screamed and screamed. I looked closer and saw the Meat hugging. I was confused and I didn’t know. Father says when I don’t know I should always tell him so I did. I told him and Father sent Brother out and they took both Meats away. I never saw its again. I think Brother made its dead. I think Brother made its more Brother. Father doesn’t say.

Now I feel the hot feel searing in my head brains. I can’t see it. I can’t look inside. It feels as Meat dragging a knife across Meat’s own neck. But I am not Meat. I am Truth. Father says so. It feels the same. Hard to tell Bad from Good but Father says to always tell him. I tell him everything and all of Truth tells him everything so what else could he know but everything.

But Father doesn’t know my hot. I can feel it. I can only tell him what I see. And I can’t see it. I can only feel it. It burns and burns and someday maybe my head will fall and my brains will boil hot over my neck and I’ll lie in the road while all the bad passes over me invisible. I don’t want to die like Meat.

Sometimes I see Meat hunched over and leaking and I wonder why Meat would do that to just hunch over and leak and shudder- bag. The hot is like that too but I don’t shudder. But I think it’s the same. Meat dragging a knife across Meat. Hunch over and leak. Since beginning I watch. I’ll have seen all. There is all. Then maybe I’ll go wherever Truth goes. Dead. But then I think that only Meat dies and that Truth can only end. I don’t know. Father knows. I can only tell what I see. Seeing is never telling.

Chris Coleman emerged from a Virginian swamp and hitchhiked to Manhattan, where he currently lives and writes. He is convinced his apartment gets a little smaller with each passing day.

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