Delicacy

Delicacy

            There was no food. Nothing to be sick off, yet we were sick. Nothing to vomit, yet we gagged and choked while the sea swirled in our stomachs. Just acid came up at first, and then it became dry, merciless retching. Eventually our bodies no longer felt the need to pretend they were going to digest something. But even with the weakness and the pockets of puke in the ponds, we still tried to fish. That’s how most of us died. Not by the starvation, though it contributed, but in our vain attempts to end this famine, we had become too tired to swim from where we had chased the fish. We stopped believing we were really seeing them, convinced that the ripples in the water were from our own movements, that the shadows were nothing but algae floating beneath the surface of the water. But nevertheless, we kept fishing. It was only after more than half of us died that someone caught something. This small, bony thing. Wrinkled like it had lost weight, and the same sickly green as the lake. The one who caught it couldn’t hide it, we were all watching him as he near effortlessly pulled the thing from beneath the water. Word travelled fast, and one of the mothers started boiling sea water to cook the thing in. By the time the fisherman had made it back to our kitchen, nearly carried by the others, the thing still wasn’t dead. The cook made quick work of it, chopping it all up and putting it into the pot despite its flopping and writhing. We couldn’t afford to waste even the eyes. By the time the stew was ready, we all were allotted one bowl each. Everyone was too starved to argue, they probably figured they would kill who they had to once their strength had returned. The soup was delicious, fatty, and full of more meat than you’d think could’ve come from the thing. After everyone had their bowl, there was still some left for seconds. Enough for everyone. We all ate another, until we forgot how many “anothers” we had eaten. There was still soup in the pot. As we continued eating, we started vomiting. It turns out that the human stomach becomes very weak after long periods of starvation. People were puking into their bowls yet continuing to eat, scared that they were wasting precious sustenance. One person began choking on his vomit, eventually to his death, and no one looked up from the meal. By the time the pot was empty, we were all quite sated, feeling almost high off the idea of a full stomach. Every one of us looked pregnant, even the men and children. We didn’t go back into that dining room for days, as our stomachs didn’t deflate, and we didn’t feel hungry. When we eventually returned, it was only to perform a simple test. The day before, two village idiots had gotten into a fight. One grabbed the nearest object, a large cleaver, and slashed at the other. Along with his bright red viscera, green water flowed from his abdomen. He fell over, dead, in a puddle of blood, water and algae. Two of us puked at the sight, and it was nothing but water. Many more soon followed, emptying their stomachs only to have them fill right back up again, conjuring up the same liquid over and over.  The ones who managed to quit hurling went back into the room where we first consumed the fish. We notice the dead man was rotting, but his stomach was full, like a big green bubble draped in rotten skin. We grabbed a knife from the adjacent kitchen and popped him, and green poured from the cut like a waterfall, but it was viscous, almost sticky. We looked down at our bloated bellies and felt as though we should cut them, but most of us resisted. The ones that were still alive decided to go back to the pond and offer the dead man back to whatever god we had displeased, as that seemed to be the only answer. The pond was not the same as we had left it. What was once disgusting water was now bubbling, hot slime. It seemed to crawl towards some of us, oozing out of its hole in the ground before being sucked back in. We teamed up and threw the body in, and it just floated on the top, refusing to be consumed. The ooze still crawled toward us, wanting something the body couldn’t provide. This time, though, it didn’t seem to be sucked back in. We had further angered whatever lived in that pond, and it wanted revenge. Someone towards the front made one wrong step and the ick licked her feet, coaxing her to walk towards the goo. The water in our stomachs commanded us to follow her, but this time no one could resist the call. A sweet, gentle humming came from our stomachs, and it felt like a magnet was pulling our bodies in the direction of the goo. We succumbed to the call, participating in an age-old ritual. The pond would rise again, consume again, live again. We had ensured its future.