Day 241. Yesterday, I did not die. I did not decide to die. Did I chicken out? Or did I not find sufficient reasons to do so after a hearty dinner? I do not know. But I know for sure that I had long since solved the problem of my sustenance in my mind. I just did not like the solution. But it turned out that there was no other option.
I open the lid of the cryocapsule and look at Barbara's body. It's slightly shriveled from the lack of solution, covered in places with a thin layer of frost, but still seems alive. I lightly touch the frozen flesh with the blade of the knife and immediately pull it back in horror. My hands are shaking. God, what am I doing?! What is this damn ship turning me into? But is there any other way? Doggone...
I wrap a piece of thick plastic around Barbara's head and tape it down. Just so I don't have to see her face... I try to make the cut again, but stop. I feel nauseous. Stop. What's the point? I can't eat raw meat. I'll throw up immediately. It's all pointless. Exhausted, I sink to the floor. I hate myself. But I don't want to die... What should I do?
Realizing that I have already accepted the need to survive, my brain begins to approach the issue technically again. The closed chamber of the cryocapsule is airtight. I need to completely shut down the cooling system, leaving only the thermocouples involved in the resuscitation procedure. Reassemble it, shortening the coils, which will increase the power in inverse proportion to the length. Try to turn the power supply upside down and increase the current... It should work.
A couple of hours later, I am sitting next to the cryocapsule, which should now be called a pressure cooker. Inside, under the airtight lid, Barbara's body is cooking. Strangely, I don't feel particularly guilty. When your stomach is growling with hunger, feelings of guilt are dulled. The only thing that worries me now is whether all my efforts will be in vain. Will I be able to eat human flesh? Fortunately, I still have plenty of packets of salty sauce left. I wonder why they put it in dry rations, because as far as I'm concerned, there's enough salt there already. Probably it was done for those who are used to fast food.
I cook Barbara for a long time. About five hours. I think that otherwise the meat won't cook properly and will be tough. Finally, I open the lid. My shelter is filled with steam and a sweetish smell. Trying not to look, I cut the body lengthwise and crosswise into rectangular pieces, wanting to make it look as little like a human as possible as quickly as possible. The overcooked meat yields easily to the knife and comes away from the bones.
I take a couple of pieces out onto a plastic tray from a dry ration, squeeze out a couple of drops of sauce, and taste it. It resembles good veal, not the youngest, but still more tender than beef. The taste is mild. Without any specific aromas, like lamb, for example. The meat is slightly tougher and stringier, but quite edible. I think if I didn't know that I had cut this piece from Barbara, I would never have guessed that it was human.
Treacherous thoughts and memories begin to make me feel sick, and I open the bottle of cognac I found. The alcohol, which my body has long been unaccustomed to, works effectively. My consciousness dulls, I finish my dinner with pleasure and fall asleep. It's late. Tomorrow I may hate myself, but right now I'm full.