The kitchen smells wrong. It’s not just the rot—that’s bad enough—but something else. An undercurrent of copper, thick and metallic, like a slaughterhouse left to fester. On the counter, the mound of meat twitches again. Twitches. A grotesque heap of raw, fleshy mass, stitched together from sinew and fat, veins visible through the slick surface.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Mom hums, her back to me as she works the knife through the last slab of muscle. The blade catches on a tendon, dragging it taut before it snaps with a wet pop. She grins—too wide—and wipes her hand on her apron, the pink smear sinking into the fabric.

I take a step closer, swallowing hard. The thing on the counter is moving—not subtly, either. It’s rippling, convulsing, as if something inside is trying to claw its way out. Flesh bubbles up, swells, then sags back down, leaving a glistening trail of slime. The smell thickens—rancid fat and blood. I can barely breathe without gagging.

“What is that?” I croak, but Mom doesn’t turn. She’s elbow-deep in whatever she’s creating, her fingers sinking into the meat, pushing it together like wet clay. The sound is wet, obscene, each squish mingling with her low hum.

Then it happens. The meat splits, a jagged tear like skin peeling from bone. I recoil, stomach lurching. Something’s inside—no, trying to get out. The flesh stretches, tightens, and splits further, fat bursting and splattering the counter. And then—God, then—a face pushes through.

Not a normal face. Twisted, malformed, eyes too big, leaking pus, a mouth too wide, broken teeth grinding. It moans, a deep, wet sound, like drowning. Another face presses forward, its mouth gnashing, trying to tear through. I can see teeth—so many teeth—yellow, sharp, chewing at nothing. Limbs, too—pale hands, fingers, claws—fight for space, for air, for life.

“Mom, stop!” I scream, the words tearing out of my throat. She doesn’t flinch. Her hand goes deeper, pulling. Another arm flops out, fingers twitching like it’s alive. The mass rises, dragging itself toward the counter’s edge, skin stretching, ripping, sinew snapping.

“Dinner’s ready,” Mom croons, her voice a wet gargle. She turns, finally, but her face—it’s not right. Her skin is splitting, the flesh beneath pulsing like the meat, like something inside her is too big for her body.

My legs buckle, bile rising as I crawl back. But it’s moving toward me, slopping off the counter in a thick, meaty heap. It drags itself closer, a mess of limbs and faces, hands reaching for me.

“Eat,” it says, pulling off a chunk of itself and placing it in my hand. It’s warm, sticky, pulsing. I stare at it, unable to scream.

It twitches.