I’m eating a plate full of chips, pie and broccoli with so much ketchup on top of it all.
When placing a piece of ketchup-covered broccoli into my mouth, I imagine it’s a dead caterpillar; it’s overcooked and tastes soft. Then I have a chip that resembles an empty dried insect. Oh, it’s crunchy ends and another hollow leftover cocoon. Ketchup. Ketchup makes it all bearable.
I cut the pie open, and a great number of lifeless maggots gush out—all covered in white mould or spores. Intermingling with the ketchup. I squeeze more ketchup on top—can’t stop pressing that fucking tube. Ketchup covers everything. Ketchup covers everything up. I take a mouthful. And another. And another.
There’s blood running down the side of my mouth; I must’ve bitten my lip.