By Christopher Munroe
I wouldn’t call myself a monster.
Merely a man occasionally made slave by his appetites.
The sort of man who’d never deny his desire for wine, for song, for celebration. His appetite for every one of life’s pleasures, those things that make living worthwhile, his appetite for joy, unquenchable.
Of appetites, unbound.
And yes, occasionally the appetite for human flesh. Ideally the flesh of children, but in a pinch any warm human will do. Yes, that’s the kind of man I am.
But not a monster, no, I’d never call myself a monster.
But then, I suppose no monster would….