Today, a chicken lays ready for me, served on the familiar rectangular silver dish, knife and fork either side. The circle of fluorescent lights above rain down on her in a spotlight, and the silver dish turns electric white underneath her. This same light catches the twinkle of melting ice, like salt, on her skin, and despite the fraying ends of a layer of mist tumbling off her body, the chicken is smooth, pimple-less and rigid. Her flesh is now a ghost of the muted blushed pink it once was, and now, lays colourless. 

The chicken’s head rests a few inches from its neck. Black eyes stare up at the light, unphased, her lips blue, cracked and flatlining. Her hair is combed back and forms a pillow of soft brown curls, the tips tickling the inflamed flesh of her exposed throat, where amongst the red, tender muscles, the pillar of her spine juts out beneath the hollow hole of her throat. It’s the same for the hands and feet; the chicken’s arms stop abruptly at the wrists, where a few inches away, the unattached hands lay with its palms up, fingers curled up in the air like the folded legs of a dead spider. The feet lay on their sides, the inner curve exposed to the ceiling, as though two boots were kicked off in a rush.

The knife and fork clink against the table as I pluck them up, and through latex gloves, I guide the blades of the knife and the prongs of the fork together at the belly of the chicken. With pressure, the flesh dips, ice crystals sparkling, and pierce the firm layer of skin until the blade is slicing cleanly through it like warm butter. The pakora sauce inside moves like jelly, frozen from the freezer. As I dip my knife and fork into the chicken, the sauce paints them a heavy red. 

I dip a latex finger into the kidney and run it around the soft, cold walls. The light blue glove is now wet with red and as I brandish my finger into the air, see that the sauce is spotless; a perfect crimson without a blemish. My eyes slide close as I slip my finger into my mouth and work my tongue around the smooth material of the latex glove, licking off all the liquid until the metallic taste floods my mouth. I swirl it around my mouth, a definite twang of iron on my tastebuds. And then, I catch it - the dry taste of something else. I suck on my finger, and taste the subtle hints of Pinot Noir. I pop my finger out of my mouth and frown, feeling the cold liquid burn my lips.

The chicken’s flesh is easy to cut through the more it melts. An easy row of my knife and the tug of my fork, and I have a square of grey flesh stabbed with four prongs. I open my mouth and catch the flesh with my teeth, and the chicken is chewed like rubber. My stomach churns with the flavour and my own throat is clogging up. The taste of rancid meat is overwhelming. Tears sting my eyes, but already I’m ripping into the flesh again, swallowing what feels like razor blades as I open my mouth for another bite.

I’ve never had a meal like this before.