The Faith Eaters, Chapter 5: Flesh, and Blood, and Other Ties that Bind

The journey is the thing."
- Dorian Kane, Supreme Necromagus of Muawijhe

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Terrance knows he is not yet mad.

It would be better if he were.

He is horrified.

Terrance looks down at the man who is kneeling on the floor before him.

The man looks back, eyes wide and unblinking, his fingers clenching and unclenching around his entrails as he tries vainly to gather them and put them back in place. His tongue twitches against his neck, dangling uselessly against the bloody pulp where his lower jaw used to be.

Terrance is holding the jaw in his hand.

There is a bowl of the man's blood on the dining table. It is a large, stainless steel bowl. The kind used for mixing cookie dough. Terrance tosses the jawbone into it. Blood splashes onto the floor. The bone sinks to the bottom of the bowl, tendrils of attached flesh floating slowly to the surface.

"I told you," says Terrance to the man, "to be quiet."

Terrance bends at the knees so that he is crouching before the man. He leans forward until their faces are mere inches apart and lifts an index finger to his lips.

"Shhhhhhhhhh...," he says, then stands and moves to the dining table where he picks up the bowl. He dips the extended index and middle fingers of his right hand into the bowl, runs them along the rim, then plunges the fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

Like mommy used to make.

Frosting for my birthday cake?

Can I lick the beaters?

Terrance's mind tiptoes delicately along the tightrope of sanity and he turns to look at the woman tied spread-eagle to the bed he has upturned against the wall. Her wrists and ankles have been fastened to the bed legs, perhaps a bit too tightly. Her hands and feet have begun to swell and blacken.

She has just regained consciousness and is nearly silent, though faint whimpers escape here lipless mouth as she thrashes her head from side to side in a desperate and futile attempt to avoid looking at her husband.

Desperate due to terror, futile because Terrance has already torn away her eyelids and tossed them into the bowl along with her lips and her husband's lower jaw.

Terrance gazes at her for a moment and cocks his head quizzically to one side. "Can you keep quiet for a sec, hon? I need to be able to think."

He holds the bowl against his stomach with his left hand, using his right to fish in the soupish mix for a tidbit. He finds a lip and slurps it into his mouth, chews it thoughtfully for a minute, then spits it onto the floor.

"I tell ya," he says to the woman. "They looked good on ya, but munchin' on 'em is like biting your own tounge. Too chewy,� he says. Then, as an afterthought:, �But not as painful."

Behind Terrance there is a thunk and a splatter as the man slumps forward onto the floor, his head smacking solidly onto the tile.

Terrance glances at the body, shrugs, and turns his attention back to the woman.

Pulling a chair from under the table, Terrance straddles it, his fingers still stirring absent-mindedly in the bowl. He gazes at the woman, lost in thought and his fingers find the jawbone. He raises it to his lips and makes loud slurping noises as he sucks the blood from it.

"Y'know," he says. "If I were a Mishiman, that wouldn't be considered rude. They eat a lot of noodles. It's actually polite to slurp where they live."

The woman vomits, but Terrance is again lost in thought and pays her no mind. He continues to gnaw on the jawbone.

Wishbones.

Wishbones.

If I let this thing dry out, can I break it like a wishbone?

Terrance is still not completely mad. A sliver of his sanity remains. He is horrified at the mess he has made, but knows he is not responsible. He knows as well that the Brotherhood will never understand this, and that if he is captured he will face the cleansing flames of the Cardinal without trial. So the part of Terrance that is still sane begins planning a way to stay alive long enough to find someone who will hear him out.

He sits there, straddling the chair and gnawing on the jawbone for several minutes.

The comm chimes. The machine picks up. Beeeeeep. "...not in. Leave a message." Pause. "Mr. and Mrs. Barett? Capt. Enkins, KPD. I need to ask you a few questions about your son. You can reach me at..." The voice leaves a number. Terrance listens. Then, finally, he leans down and sets the bowl on the floor. He stands. He drops the jawbone back into the bowl. He moves to the woman.
She watches as he nears her, presses her body against the bed frame as if trying to hide within the wires of the boxed spring.

"I gotta clean up," he says. "May I use your shower?"

She offers no response, but he doesn't really expect one.

"And your husband was about my size. I'll probably need some of his clothes," says Terrance. "That OK?"

Still no answer. But he's pretty sure she won't mind.

"Thanks," he says, then leans forward and presses his lips to her mouth in a long, hard kiss, tongue probing her mouth and running along her teeth and the shredded remnants of her lips. He pulls away from her, turns, and walks across the kitchen toward the hall leading to the bathroom. At the bathroom door he stops, turns to look back down the hall at the woman and says, "I really should have kissed you BEFORE I ripped your lips off."

Terrance takes his time freshening up. He scrubs the blood from under his nails. He finds the shampoo and lathers, rinses, repeats...

Several times.

The man's toothbrush is in the cabinet over the sink and Terrance uses it to clean his teeth. He scrubs his tongue. A particularly annoying piece of flesh is stuck in his back teeth, but he can't find any floss.

Once he is clean, Terrance moves to the couple's bedroom and selects a comfortable suit of clothes: denim trousers, T-shirt, running shoes. He selects a long overcoat to cover the ensemble. It's a bit baggy.

Fully dressed, Terrance steps back into the hallway. It is now that he notices the third door. Curious, he pads down the hall, turns the knob and leans into the room beyond.

Huh. A kid's room, he thinks.

And a geeky kid at that. A desk stacked high with textbooks. A poster of the periodic table of the elements tacked to the wall. A mobile of the solar system dangling from the ceiling.

Terrance leaves the room, shuts the door behind him and moves back into the kitchen. He searches briefly through several cupboards and drawers until he finds a toothpick. He sticks the toothpick in his mouth, then moves across tile floor and comes to a stop next to the woman tied to the bed. He reaches up with one hand and grasps the bed frame. The bed wobbles on its end.

Terrance looks the woman in the eyes and says, "Later, Ma. Gotta go."

Then he gives the bed a tug and it slams to the floor, coming to rest nearly as it was designed: None of its four three-inch legs is more than an inch off the floor.

Terrance leaves the apartment.

His Glare, gorged and swollen near the point of bursting, sighs, burrows deeper into Terrance's spine and begins weaving its cocoon.