Chapter 15 #2
In my culture, the consumption of a new permanent form is a lengthy ritual that can take days, because every bit of the body must be devoured and the bones must be sucked clean.
It’s a process that’s intended to be savored.
If the consumption is too rapid, the matagot may fall into a deep sleep afterward, an unconscious state that allows the flesh to be fully absorbed as part of the matagot’s metaphysical being.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to do this at the proper pace.
I survey the bulk of the original Beresford, my mouth dry with distaste. “I wish you weren’t such a gigantic bastard.”
Staring at him won’t make him any smaller or more palatable, and I need to start the consumption process before he’s been out of the charmed room for too long.
I strip off my clothing and transform into my shadow-shape.
Whenever one of my forms becomes too glutted, I’ll switch to the other for a while.
In my matagot form, I am more creature than man, and it’s easier to consume the more grotesque parts of the carcass, like the copious amounts of hair and beard I have to swallow.
I start with the head, tearing off the scalp and beard with my teeth and gulping them down.
My fangs and claws aren’t very large in this form, so it’s difficult work to rip off the skin and dig out the eyes, but I manage it.
My long tongue is barbed, perfect for sliding through eye sockets and scooping brain matter out of the skull’s interior.
When the skull is bare, empty, and licked clean, I strip the skin off the corpse’s chest, swallowing it and leaving the meat. I eat his cock next, then the balls. By the time I’ve finished with the hands and feet, my matagot form is growing full, so I switch to Beresford’s form again.
If I had time, I would cook the meatier parts of the body—breast, thigh, buttocks, shoulders.
I’d fry his liver and kidneys with salt, oil, and onions.
Make a feast of it. But there is no time.
There is only biting and chewing and swallowing.
Tearing the muscle. Gulping the tendons.
Stripping the bones and sucking them dry.
My human stomach grows tight and swollen, aching from the glut of meat, so I switch to matagot shape again. I slurp down the intestines like noodles, keeping my mind carefully blank while I do it.
It is as necessary as it is disgusting.
The body cavity is empty of entrails when I change forms again. The tightness of my human stomach has eased a bit as the flesh is absorbed, so I can handle another serving.
I stand at the kitchen table beside my own devastated carcass, devouring myself. I can only imagine what Sybil would think if she came down here and interrupted the process. I pray to any gods who might be listening that she’ll remain asleep until it’s done.
I carve long strips of pink flesh from Beresford’s right forearm, forcing them down my gullet one at a time, swallowing the pieces whole when I can.
My jaws are weary from chewing, and my belly is bloated.
When I feel as if one more bite will make me vomit, I transform into the matagot and continue.
Gnaw. Rip. Bite. Chew. Swallow.
The wind has died down, and the silence makes each sound louder. Every snapped tendon, every crunched bit of gristle, every wet gulp.
I catch sight of my true form’s shadow on the wall—high shoulders, arched back, spindly legs, a catlike head. But the neck and the sharp ears are far too long for any cat from this world. Instead of my usual shrunken belly, my stomach hangs low, distended with its fresh contents.
I never want Sybil to see me like this. If Fate is willing, I’ll stay in Beresford’s shape for the rest of my life. After tonight, I will never take my real form again.
Almost there. Just the lower legs and the meat on the back of the ribcage are left. I can do this.
Crunch. Rip. Slurp. Swallow. Lick.
At last, it’s done. All that remains of the original Beresford is a polished skeleton. Now I must dispose of the bones and clean up the mess.
I’ve already licked and scoured most of the blood with my matagot tongue, but large wet patches still remain on the table and the floor. They’ll need to be thoroughly scrubbed.
As I’m about to shift from Beresford into the matagot, my stomach gurgles, and a violent rush of nausea makes me groan.
If I vomit him up, I’ll have to eat it. Fuck.
My body is burning, but a cold sweat cloaks my skin. I’ve consumed too much flesh at once, and my body is struggling to absorb it.
Moaning, I stretch out on my back on the tiled floor. I’ll rest here for a moment until my stomach settles, and then I’ll clean everything up.
The cold tiles soothe my burning skin. I’m too full to breathe deeply, but I take shallow sips of air and focus on what I’ve achieved.
I took all of Beresford into myself. He is truly a part of me now, and his form is forever mine. Once he is absorbed, nothing can prevent me from assuming his shape whenever I want, for as long as I want.
Relief and peace flood my mind, and the nausea begins to recede.