When Melissa and I woke up two days later, the morning sun cowered behind a curtain of vulgar clouds, their unpleasant appearance mirroring the world around us.
Melissa made no comment about my appearance when we woke, nor did she shy away when I stroked one long, black nail down her arm, drawing beads of blood from her ravaged flesh. If the numerous cuts and bruises I’d left on her skin during our hours of passion hurt her, she kept silent about it.
Since my discovery and acceptance of who I was, I hadn’t seen my family once. Now, as went downstairs, we found my parents waiting for us in the kitchen, standing on either side of the table where we’d shared so many meals.
The same table where my brother Owen’s body now lay, carved open from neck to groin, his exposed organs steaming and fresh.
“My son,” my mother said, the bloody cleaver still in her hand.
I nodded, still unsure of how I should react to the sudden fealty being paid to me. Melissa nudged me with her elbow.
“The sacrifice is for you, my love,” she whispered.
The sight of my brother’s butchered carcass didn’t repulse me, but I also had no idea what to do with it. Then, like the time in the diner, my body reacted instinctively, knowing what it needed. My chest split open and a tentacle uncoiled. It wavered over the body for a moment, then homed in on Owen’s liver, which it plucked out with one strong tug. Wrapped around its prize, it withdrew back inside me and the bloodless wound in my chest sealed itself again.
A warm, satisfied feeling filled me, as if I’d just finished Thanksgiving dinner.
“Come, my love,” Melissa said to me. “It’s time to see your town.”
Hand in hand, we walked out into the world I’d wrought.