‘Dinner’—Godsend Chapter One

Written by Everitt Adair Thomson

CW: cannibalism

A pungent smell wafted through the dining room. The sharp coppery smell

stung Lyra's eyes and caused them to water. Crying, however, wasn’t an option.

For all her years in the palace, she found it impossible to grow accustomed to

her master's dinner parties. This one was no different from the previous ones:

the same gossiping nobles eating the same grotesque food. It felt like being in

the heart of a lion's den.

Lyra looked around the room, averting her eyes from the table. The hall itself

was, in no uncertain terms, gorgeous. Walls adorned in tapestries and intricately

detailed paintings- it was a sight to behold.

The eyes of those paintings peered at Lyra from the walls, much like the people

at the table. They were as perfect and beautiful as those paintings, dressed in

silk, jewels, gold and silver. The jewellery adorning them glinted in the warm

candlelight, obscuring the figures in their shimmers. They seemed to glow,

twinkling like stars against the deep winter sky.

Their chatter echoed throughout the room. Lyra couldn't say that she was

particularly interested. The rumour mill worked tirelessly, spinning new

scandals and controversies to keep the gossips of the upper-class content. Many

rumours were circling. The most popular surrounded a wedding and a funeral.

"I am ready to kill my father," The man at the head of the table said. "Of all the

hills to die on, it's about me getting married to that witch."

He stabbed at the meat on his plate, shoving his food about, leaving trails of

crimson smeared in its wake. He let out an exasperated sigh as he sat down his

cutlery. "She's awful."

The room erupted into murmurs of agreement.

"Honestly, Your Excellency, I'm so sorry you've got to put up with her."

The man at the head of the table let out another disgruntled noise as he

continued to prod at his food. He skewered a piece of the meat and placed it

into his mouth. His eyes trailed around his plate.

"Her name was Mary." He said, pointing at his food. "... Snivelling little thing."

Lyra winced at the man's words. His tone was sharp; it felt like a needle

piercing the back of her head when he spoke. She fidgeted in her place, feeling

fear rise in her chest as she watched the man sulk in his seat.

"She'd only been working here for about a month before I'd had enough of her."

He continued. "She had a smart mouth."

Lyra knew Mary. Not very well, but they were familiar with each other. She

was there when Mary died, and Lyra was ashamed to admit that she had grown

a little desensitised to her peers being maimed and killed. But she would be

lying if she were to say that she expected Mary to last long.

"I was willing to give her a chance, you know? But never has a servant talked

to me like she did. She kept showing up with my food late, and when I rightfully complained, she started getting snarky with me." He whined as he

continued to eat his food. "Well... look where that got her."

The people at the table began snickering and giggling.

Lyra looked at the food on the people's plates. The gentle scrape of cutlery

against the plates accompanied their chatter, and Lyra felt herself growing

squeamish. Her mind was occasionally diverted from the sight and smell by the

odd comment, but she couldn't stay distracted for long.

Despite its decadence, the room was laced with reminders of the horrors it

housed. Despite the room's spaciousness, it felt so claustrophobic, the darkness

closing in on her on all sides.

The stains on the tablecloth were one such reminder. It was red, multiple

shades of red. It was white once.

The whole room reeked of death; the smell clung to the wallpaper, and Lyra

was starting to feel nauseous. Bile rose in her throat, and her stomach churned.

Thankfully, the room was dark, only illuminated by candles on the table so

Lyra could slink back into the shadows.

The Prince continued to talk with his guests, but with his slouched posture and

ever more monotone voice, it was easy to parse that he was becoming bored.

He rhythmically tapped his fingers on the table as he glanced about, looking for

something a little more entertaining to hold his attention. His focus was a

fickle, fleeting thing.

Lyra tried to slink into the darkness but, unfortunately, she had no such luck.

The Prince turned around to face her with a smile.

"Lyra, darling?" He started, garnering the attention of the whole group. All of

their chatter ceased so they could listen in. "Could you come here for a

moment; it shouldn't take long."

Lyra swallowed before cautiously stepping forward into the light. "Yes, sir?"

She asked.

"Can you try some of this?" He started. "You knew her, right? She was pretty

rotten, so I want to see if she tastes as terrible as she acted. In your opinion, of

course. I think she tastes rather mediocre."

Lyra blanched at his words, nearly choking on air. Though she quickly

composed herself before any eyebrows could raise in her direction. "Pardon

me, sir? I couldn't eat off your plate; that would just be unacceptable." She

muttered, her voice meek and quiet, trying to avoid being overheard.

"Oh, don't be like that. I've given you permission: try some; it'll be fine."

"No, no, I really couldn't."

"Lyra." He started, his voice dropping from cheerful to threatening in only a

few seconds. His eyes bore into her as if staring past the skin to the meat and

muscle. Perhaps in that brief moment, he considered having her served next.

"I'm telling you to eat.”

“I’m fine, really, Your Highness.”

“Lyra, don’t be difficult.” He hissed, reaching over and grabbing her wrist, his

fingers clamping around it like a shackle.

The table’s attention had quickly come to focus on Lyra and Samuel. She could

see the expressions of the people staring. From annoyance to fury to perverse

excitement, regardless of the person, one thing was clear, they were waiting for

Samuel to snap. Perhaps they’d be having seconds.

“Please, sir-”

“Come on, Lyra: it’s not that hard. Eat it.” Samuel said as he took his fork and

pushed it onto Lyra’s lips. Her eyes widened as she tasted the metallic yet

oddly sweet meat. The taste was invasive. The blood had stained her lips like

rouge. While she was in shock, the food got pushed further into her mouth,

uncomfortably rubbing against her tongue.

Lyra gagged and threw a hand up over her mouth. Her mouth hung open with

shock as she felt the meat melt, straining her teeth. If it were steak it would be

heavenly. She doubled over, one hand clutching her stomach, feeling the urge

to vomit overshadow her professional obligations.

She spat the meat out of her mouth and onto the wooden floor. She heaved and

let out loud laboured breaths. Tears began to stream down her cheeks as she

squealed in horror. Her grimaces, pained gasps for air through hyperventilation

and shocked screeching filled the room, silencing all of the whispers and only

increasing the tension in the room.

Everyone watched as she convulsed in her spot, scrubbing her mouth and

tongue.

“I told you I didn’t want it!” She screamed as she wiped her mouth and cheeks.

In her panic, she barely had time to think about her words as they slipped out of

her mouth.

Lyra wiped and scoured her mouth with her sleeve, trying to rid herself of the

taste and texture. Samuel let his cutlery clatter onto his plate and stood.

He walked over to Lyra, and his guests watched. They watched with rapt

concentration: fixated on Samuel as he reached out towards his servant and

grabbed her shoulders. She jerked about in his grasp unable to get away from

him.

Samuel started quickly ushering her out of the room; he whispered in her ear as

he did. Lyra’s wails

drowned

him out.

The door closed behind the pair, leaving the guests alone and incredibly

underwhelmed.

*

Lyra sat on the edge of her bed later that night with a cup of lukewarm tea in

her shaking hands. The inside of the cup was yellowed from years of use. The

edges of the cup were chipped, her lips pushing into the crevices when she

drank. The handle of the cup looked close to falling off, with deep cracks

racing along it. No matter how gentle Lyra was, nothing would change the fact

the handle would eventually snap: spilling the tea. In such a case perhaps she’d

be grateful for it being cold.

The tea wasn’t good. It was almost stone-cold when Lyra got to it. The tea

leaves were nothing more than a small pile of brown mush at the bottom of the

cup, making it even less appetising. Though she didn’t dare complain. For all

as disgusting as her tea was, she knew she was lucky to have it all.

A few short years ago, Lyra hadn’t even dreamed of having tea. Her family

could barely afford to feed themselves, never mind buy tea. Lyra tapped the

side of the cup as she swirled the tea around.

She’d tell herself every day: ‘Put up with it. You have it so good.’

As long as she lived comfortably, she didn’t deserve self-pity. Lyra quickly

downed the whole cup. Anything to get the metallic taste of blood out of her

mouth.

The stench of blood clung to her clothes, and she could still taste it on her lips.

She felt disgusting, covered in a thick layer of sweat that made her dress cling

to her uncomfortably, hair matted to her skin with it. She could barely breathe,

letting out heavy, laboured breaths as she struggled to find air.

Her knuckles were white with tension as she gripped her sleeve with her free

hand.

Her heartbeat thumped in her ears and dominated every other sense. She felt

the back of her eyes strain. The cup waned in her grip, her hands pressing into

the cracks. She let out a frustrated scream before throwing it at the wall,

causing it to smash into hundreds of bits and clatter onto the wood-panelled

floor.

She quickly stood up from her bed, turned around and threw her blanket on her

bedroom floor. She didn’t care where it went. Her thoughts were consumed like

wildfire by Samuel, by that h. He deserved to be reduced to ash or even less.

Lyra began to lay punches into her thin mattress, the springs scraping her

knuckles, making them bleed, skin peeling back in thin, jagged layers. She lay

blow after blow on her bed before she let herself fall. Sobs wracked her body in

violent convulsions and wails burned her throat as she buried her face in her

pillows.

Her cries echoed out into the halls, teetering off after a few long minutes. The

night's exhaustion soon caught up to Lyra, falling into a fitful sleep and still

wearing her clothes. In the world of her head, she still wasn’t safe as she rolled

back and forth, tormented even in her dreams.

Even then, it was welcome. Every night she might escape reality into a mire of

feigned horror, consigning the day to oblivion. She welcomed it, allowing

herself to chew and swallow all the malice her head could conjure, a

never-ending dinner. She found comfort in it, a brief reprieve as she waited for

her day of reckoning to come and claim her.