Taste

Taste 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Someone once upon a time had called him a “filth eater.” The phrase struck Jim as needlessly vulgar and reductive. Perhaps there was an ounce of truth to it. Sometimes pain could be rather filth-ridden. But to focus on that one singular element didn’t do the process justice. Not all sins tasted alike. Every pain had its own unique quality. Some came with bitterness, some were sour. Most had a savory quality. The rarest could be sweet.

Once upon a time Jim thought he understood, and had identified the various correlations between taste and tragedy. But then he tasted and re-tasted the same sins from the same person, and found them far from consistent. Perhaps once partial eaten, the taste of pain changed. Perhaps he had caused it or perhaps the person had changed in the intermittent time in-between and life had altered the flavor. He had no way to test it as hypothesis. There were very few customers to begin with and even fewer were repeats.

Jim crossed paths with a man named Specter who had his own favorite flavors, and his definitions didn’t seem to match Jim’s at all. Specter thought he was touching God; that through the transfer of someone else’s sin into him, he was becoming holy, if only for one moment.

Jim had no such illusions. His predilections were consumption based. It was a survival instinct that drove him, for with every pain he removed from another, Jim also stole just a tiny amount of their energy, of their life force. A small pain might give him seconds back of his life, but ever moment was precious. Large atrocities could make him feel twenty years younger and the energy high might last for weeks or months. The best taste came from victims. Maybe it was helping them over their trauma that made it so rewarding. To take someone’s sin that still deserved to suffer seemed an unjust act. But he felt redeemed helping those who were innocent.

 

For Maya, the pain never went away. She was stained with it. To help someone, anyone, was punishment. No matter how long ago, no matter how many other deeds done, she would always remember. She could relive the moment, bring it back, and feel it all over again – the pain and suffering of others. There was no such thing as the past. No faded photos. No lost memories. Time moved forward, but the past was compressed and lingered and help tight, a chain or albatross, always with her.

At first she vowed to never have human contact again. She knew life was too short and her memory was too vivid and she could not fill her dreams with more nightmares. She had her own lifetime of suffering and couldn’t afford to feel all that from another. But life is long and has other plans and once upon a time she accidentally fell in love again. And without even knowing it, she allowed herself to taste once again.

It became compulsion. To take someone’s suffering, to make it her own. Perhaps a mercy for some, but an addiction to her. Once she had tasted, she was left wanting. The want would grow and grow. More. She needed more. A piece of her was missing if she didn’t get more. She would wake and think about it all day. Every day. That taste. That desire. To be filled again with someone else’s destruction.

And destruction came. Her husband withered and wasted away. Their love crumbled. His life became her life and she would never forget. But she needed more.

The need lingered, always there, just a hint, even after she fed on others. Her favorites were the zealots, the true believers, the ones worried about sin and about where their soul might indeed go someday. The poor fools. If confession made them feel lighter, if they attributed that to some divine forgiveness, she did not care. She would give them their absolution. But she would take everything from them. Everything that was important. They had no idea what they were giving up. What they were giving her in the exchange. It was the ultimate pleasure. The ultimate gift of feeling alive.

Maya came to believe that all men must pay the price for their sins. That was the definition of man. She could consume them. Consume it all. Let them pay and let her live. For a long long time.

 

Jim wasn’t sure why the woman was watching him, but he felt energy from it. Jim felt passion and power and felt ten years younger. He had never felt like this just from looking at another. Usually he needed to connect, to share, to speak or touch and get to know them. Her pain must be immense, he thought. To give him so much, just from being close. He began to salivate. He could already taste her in his mouth. Her pain was exquisite. She would be a feast. A celebration. He might live again, a second life. He would eat. And eat. He would drain her and she would feel better for it, a perfect symbiosis.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t thought of what he would say, when he noticed she was already smiling at him. He took that as a good sign. This would be easy and she would be fantastically satisfying.