The last Supper

Friend, associate, colleague?
The words escape me, absent from my vocabulary,
Perhaps a paired frosty soul,
Thrust into this icy existence.
Wielding a hand of God, or his adversary.

Removed from the therapeutic environment,
He sits at my table, haunted by voices,
Discourse of a split mind.
I serve him fine cutlets, my own recipe.
Tender, prepared, just as I prepare him.

‘Many go unnoticed, absent from my records.
Underhand, silent deviants, hiding.
Some with phobias, others with philias,
Attracted to the pain inflicted on others,
Such is life.’

I carve the pale meat, a steady hand,
Used to the blade.
‘One demon did solicit advice, secretly.
A penchant for youthful screams,
A need to watch the eye’s light extinguish.’

He digs into the flesh placed before him,
Listening to me, and the dark tones of his mind.
‘Without prejudice he would prey,
A hyena or rat, scuttling in his own filth.
His grim needs growing ever more macabre.

He sat at this table, much like yourself,
But without my integrity, a gift bestowed on you.
Medication took hold, sinking him into slumber,
From which he awoke, paralysed,
Severed spine. Able to feel, blade perfectly placed.

Slaughtered over time, I relished his consequences,
Empathy inflicted; empathy enforced.
His sins bled from his living corpse,
And offered to my honoured guest,
A fine meal?’