Warning: This story contains violence, gore, and descriptions of eating a human being. If you do not wish to read about this, do not read further. Thank you!

Today is my last day off before I can go back to work. The night that I met Sara I had an accident and broke my right arm, locking me down at Sara's house for the last couple of weeks. The morning after the accident my arm was healed to the point that it was only somewhat sore and bruised. However, with Huey knowing full well that I had broken my arm and Sara certainly aware that I had broken my arm, I had to pretend it was still broken. So, I guessed about two weeks should be enough to recover to the point that I would be able to work again. Still, I’d have to wear a dummy cast, since real humans take months to fully heal their broken limbs. It’s bloody annoying.

With this last day off, Sara wanted to take an outing with me, presumably as some sort of date. I, of course, accepted. I felt the need to do this to work towards a goal that, before a week ago, I could’ve only dreamed of achieving. See, there’s a rare feeding practice monsters employ generally called “cattling.” It’s when a monster finds a human who is romantically interested in them, “date” them for an extended period of time and pretend to be their romantic partner, all the while shaping the human up to be their ideal meal.

It takes a lot of work and effort, and some believe it to be morally detestable; however, I don’t personally care about morals, only practicality. In any other situation, I would have had to go out of my way to form a relationship with a human to even get the opportunity to begin thinking about cattling. That's why, in any other situation, I would never consider doing it. Of course, this relationship fell in my lap; I would have been stupid to pass up on it.

This is all to say I am in no way at all romantically interested in Sara Jacobs, no matter how much it may seem.

For a teacher’s assistant, Sara has a suspicious amount of money. I believe she might be sitting on old money from her parents, or she might just be a very frugal spender. I only make note of this because the aforementioned outing is an incredible dinner date. It’s a rather fancy steak place in York with a gimmick where there are no overhead lights, and the only light comes from candles. I’m sure it cost her a lot of money just to sit in these chairs. I am nervous, incredibly so. I shift uncomfortably back and forth in my chair. I assure you, however, that I am not nervous because of the date.

Most monsters cannot stomach human food. Some will build up a tolerance to fit in better, while others genuinely enjoy it, but most will gag just by tasting it. Usually, I can appear to enjoy what I’m eating, but I still become quite ill. This is best mitigated with fowl like chicken and turkey, where the sickness is barely more than a mild stomach ache, and worse with seafood like fish and crab, which is only comparable to the feeling of having your intestines skewered on barbed claws.

Red meat like steak is a good middle ground; the more raw the better. Most monsters are able to eat it without problem besides mild stomach pains. Like I said, I can appear to enjoy what I’m eating, but a few minutes after eating steak I become tired and nauseous, my stomach twists itself into knots, and I begin to vomit uncontrollably, no matter how rare. It’s a truly terrible feeling, but I had to appear human to keep Sara happy.

This is all made worse by the fact that I haven’t had a substantial meal in weeks. I would count my most recent good meal as the man I ate before meeting Sara, and since my horribly failed hunt the other day I’ve been cautious to even leave the house. There’s nothing worse than eating bad food on an empty stomach, and I begin to question if Sara Jacobs is worth the effort…

I look up to her to gauge the situation. She looks just as uncomfortable as I am. I smell her sweat, and the pungent odour of fear tells me that she is stressed. Is this her first ever date? I’m surprised, her being the attractive young woman that she is. I suppose this is my first date as well, regardless of how genuine it is.

Sara is looking at her lap. Where’s the waiter? I swear we ordered hours ago. A sweat bead falls from my brow and onto my arm, which jerks up in reflex and smacks the table from below. Sara shoots up and looks straight at me, and I look at her. I am barely able to make out an utterly terrified expression on her face in the dim candlelight. The restaurant continues to bustle around us, as if unaware of our meagre existence.

I sit, petrified. What am I doing? Why am I so on edge? This should be easy. I sit down, I talk to her, I eat, then I retreat to the bathroom before I explode. As I am trapped in my head, swirling around in questions, Sara begins to laugh. I’m snapped out of my trance and look at her.

“Bloody ‘ell… It’s just dinner, Sara.” She consoles herself, “Why are you so scared?” She smiles and assumes a relaxed sitting position. I find myself relaxing too. I push the food out of my mind, and try to shift my focus to what's in front of me.

“How can you afford this?” I ask her, both to ease my natural curiosity and to start a conversation that may distract from the fact that I’m about to turn my guts inside out.

“My parents were successful business folks.” She responds absentmindedly, presumably distracted by my face. I wipe my mouth to make sure I’m not drooling or bleeding, but my hand stays dry. Sara continued, “I never really paid much attention to what they did. I think they were involved with t’ government some’ow. My dad used to take me here a lot when I was a kid and still ate meat. I figured you were a steak girl, so I thought this would be sweet.”

I suppose I am a steak girl, to some degree. I am intrigued by that last comment. I have always been sceptical of the human practice of vegetarianism. After all, humans evolved on meat, how could you possibly shift away? I always assumed it was an unhealthy fad diet that people ate to achieve some sort of moral high-ground. I ask her why she doesn’t eat meat.

“It’s just a moral thing. As a society, we’re moving towards a point that we can move away from eating other animals. It’s kinda cruel and barbaric, eating other sentient beings.” She responds and shakes her head. “There’s more problems, like environmental effects of large-scale meat production and a sort of psychological disconnect between food and animals, but for mesen it’s mostly t’ fact that I can’t eat meat without feelin’ really bad about it. I can’t fault anyone for eating meat, it tastes good and it’s really, REALLY ‘ard not to, but I like to think that, even though I’m only one little Yorkshire lass eatin’ one less cow a day, it makes a difference.” She shrugs and puts forth a humble “Iunno” before going back to quietly staring at me.

I’m floored. I never expected anything this smart and well-articulated from Sara. I still don’t understand the sentiment, but I’ve never actually heard this argument presented in a way that didn’t sound overly pretentious or preachy. I nod and say “Yeah” and try to move on to another question, but I come up blank. I’ve never tried to hold a conversation with a human beyond necessity, so this is a massive challenge for me.

I believe Sara notices this, because she interrupts my trance with a soft voice. “You don’t ‘ave to talk if you don’t wanna. Just sittin’ ‘ere with you is fun enough.” I look up at her in a bit of shock, but nod. I was always under the impression that human interaction was fueled by conversation. How strange humans are in their obscure and contradictory desires. Still, this is advantageous to me, because I don’t have to rely on my lacklustre communication skills anymore tonight, and can focus on trying to not vomit.

Our food arrives. I didn’t even notice that time had been passing. We thank the waiter, and Sara begins eating on her salad. I pick up my fork and begin to work away at the steak with my casteless arm. After fiddling with it and finally tearing off an edible piece, I stick it in my mouth. I feel like I’m chewing on rubber. The seasoning is horrendous and insulting, and the blood tastes like sewage. Every time I chew, I’m tempted to bite off my tongue so that I might not taste it anymore; however, the blood pouring from my mouth might raise suspicion. So, with much effort, I swallow. I hum pleasantly.

“That’s good steak.”

Over the coming minutes, I choke down my steak while Sara enjoys her salad. She doesn’t suspect a thing. She’s having a good time, oblivious to my suffering. I’m sweating profusely, and the nausea’s beginning to set in. I feel like I am on death’s door. I begin to stand up and excuse myself from the table. Sara asks where I’m going, and I tell her my destination with a laboured breath, “The restroom.”

As I enter the restroom, I find it’s just as dark as the rest of the restaurant, with just a smattering of orange mood lights permitting me to see the stall I would be emptying my stomach into. I fling myself inside and slam the door shut. I feel my whole body heave, and I try to push it back down and bide myself some more time. I hastily remove my shirt so that I won’t accidentally dirty it, and throw it over a handy hook on the back of the stall door. I position myself over the toilet and finally allow my body to purge itself of the rancid meat.

It hurts. My stomach contorts and twists around while the taste of half digested steak re-enters my mouth, now accompanied by stomach acid and bile. I begin coughing and hyperventilating. I become more aware of my surroundings for just a moment, and take the opportunity to listen and see if I was alone. I don’t hear the normal shuffling characteristic of an occupied restroom, so I'm slightly eased by that fact. My stomach, however, isn’t, and I return to heaving.

I am startled by a voice. It comes from the stall to my right; “Could you keep it down?” The lady yells, “I’m trying to do drugs!”

I take a few deep breaths. Was I really about to do this? My fingers on my left arm grow long, and my teeth sharpen. Yes, of course I am. It makes sense, really. I’m at a restaurant, after all, and I just made room. Plus, I’m more hungry now than I think I’ve ever been in my life.

I wipe vomit from my lips and spit out the last of it still in my mouth. Then, I spring up into the air, vaulting over the stall wall and impaling the woman’s head on my claws. Due to the dim lighting, she didn't see me before I had already punctured her skin. She didn't even have a chance to whimper or feel pain. This is most desirable; I hate the taste of cortisol.

…

I feel much better coming out of the bathroom. The woman was small, so she didn’t last very long. She never had the chance to take her drugs either, and I couldn't taste any narcotics or amphetamines. I lick a drop of blood from my lip, and find Sara still at the table, working with the bill.

“You were gone for a while, are you alright?” She asks. I nod and reply with a simple lie, “I'm fine, was just a little nervous. I feel so much better now.”

She seemed to accept that, as she finished working the bill without any more questions. For some reason, though, a doubt lingers in my mind that my lie didn’t land too well.