>Well no, I don't think I pushed him to do anything he didn't want to do, nor did I have malicious intent.
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New 'zacake

THE ROASTBEEF

I found the pictures at 3:17 a.m.

Two of them. Soft focus. Bad lighting. The kind of photos someone takes when they think the angle is flattering. Underneath one of them was a single line of text:

“Arby’s roastbeef. Don’t look it up if you want to eat this week.”

I shouldn’t have looked.

The first image was bad enough. The second one still sits behind my eyes. It wasn’t gore. It wasn’t violence. It was worse. Ordinary. Folded. Wet. The exact color of meat left under a heat lamp too long. The longer I stared, the more the folds arranged themselves into something that felt deliberate, like it was waiting to be recognized.

I closed the window.

Three hours later I opened it again.

People kept writing the same sentence underneath the pictures, over and over:

“I seen her cunt on the internet.”

They wrote it like a warning. Like a confession. Like the only words left that still made sense. It was a guttural response, a fear triggered deep within one's reptilian brain.

I told myself it was just another leak. Another middle-aged woman who thought she was being brave. I went to bed.

That night I dreamed of drive-thru speakers.

The voice on the other end was female, cheerful, slightly nasal. It asked if I wanted the roast beef sandwich. When I said no it asked again. And again. Until the voice started coming from inside my own mouth.

I woke up tasting salt and blood.

The next morning the pictures were in my camera roll. I never saved them. They were just there, between a photo of my dog and a gas-station receipt. When I deleted them they came back lower resolution, like they’d been screenshotted and re-uploaded a hundred times.

I started noticing the color everywhere. The pinkish-brown of certain clouds at dusk. Wet cardboard after rain. The meat section at the grocery store. I stopped buying deli food. Then I stopped buying anything the wrong shade of pink. Then I stopped eating.

The pictures kept finding me. In the reflection of my monitor even after the browser was closed. In the dark shape of a coat hung over a chair. In the way steam rose off a plate of food I couldn’t bring myself to touch.

Last night the drive-thru dream returned. This time the voice didn’t ask if I wanted the sandwich. It just whispered:

“You already ordered it.”

When I woke up there was a grease-stained bag on my nightstand. Inside was a sandwich. The meat was the exact color. The exact texture. It was still warm.

I didn’t eat it.

I opened the pictures one more time. There was a new one. No caption this time. Just the image.

And underneath it, in smaller letters that hadn’t been there before:

“Don’t look it up if you want to eat this week.”

I closed the laptop.

In the dark of my room I could still see it.

Not on the screen.

On the inside of my eyelids.

Folded.

Wet.

Waiting.

I seen her cunt on the internet.

And now it sees me back.
 
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