The genesis of a human life is a complex tapestry woven from many elements. It would be ideal if every birth were the simple fruition of a passionate, burning love between a man and a woman, but reality is rarely such a fairy tale.
My life was a testament to that.
I was the result of a reckless spark between two drunks, a mistake made in a stupor. The man who was supposedly my father vanished before I even drew my first breath, leaving my mother to raise me alone.
Not that she was a "good" mother by any stretch of the imagination. She openly admitted, in her own drunken rants, that she only kept me because she lacked the money for an abortion and desperately needed the government subsidies provided to single mothers. It's hard to view someone as a parent when they see you as nothing more than a welfare check. She would frequently bring new lovers home, laughing as she watched them use me as a punching bag.
I was spawned from human trash and raised in a landfill. It was only natural, then, that my life followed a jagged, broken path. Nothing I touched ever turned out right, and I found it far too easy to lash out and wound others. When I finally caught a glimpse of the monster I was becoming and felt a wave of nausea, I experienced a twisted sense of relief—at least my conscience still functioned better than my mother's.
I hadn't asked to be brought into this world, and I hadn't asked for the burden of living in it. If I was to have no say in my beginning, I wanted, at the very least, to possess the ultimate autonomy: to choose my end.
And so, I threw myself from the heights of a cliff.
But it seemed I was a failure even at dying. On the way down, my body slammed into a protruding branch. It was a direct hit. The jagged wood tore through my abdomen, baring my viscera to the night air. My entrails were scattered across the foliage like the colorful paper streamers of a burst firecracker, yet because the branch had broken my fall, death eluded me.
I knew I would eventually succumb to blood loss and shock, but the prospect of remaining conscious and agonizing in this torment until then was horrific. I would have preferred to have my skull shattered instantly. In the end, I was a pathetic mess who couldn't even commit suicide properly.
I glared up at the night sky beyond the cliff's edge, cursing the stars for the meaninglessness of my existence.
That was when I sensed another presence.
"...I've never seen a case quite like this before."
It was unexpected. That someone would appear here, in this remote forest I had chosen for my secret end.
It was a young man, carrying a large guitar case on his back. He looked down at my blood-soaked form splayed across the earth, then shifted his gaze toward the scraps of my internal organs hanging from the tree branch.
"A failed suicide attempt, I take it? You're dying, with your innards spilled out for the world to see."
It was a grotesque sight, enough to make any normal person avert their eyes in horror, yet the man remained unnervingly composed as he assessed the situation. He was surprised, certainly, but his lack of a visceral reaction was peculiar. He stepped carefully, making sure not to tread on my scattered remains, and leaned over me.
His face hovered near mine as I struggled for breath.
"Can you still speak? It's far too late to save you, but if you say you want to live, I'll call an ambulance."
The man held a cell phone in one hand, ready to dial the moment I gave him an affirmative. I had no idea why this stranger was doing this, but I decided to answer.
"...No... needn't bother..."
I had already reached the point where I could no longer feel pain. It was far too late to turn back, and even if survival were possible, I had no desire to return to that life.
The man stared at me for a moment, then tucked his phone away as if respecting my choice. He then sat down right there on the dirt. He simply sat, watching. Was he intending to bear witness to my final moments? I wondered why a man like him would come to a forest frequented only by those who had abandoned hope. He didn't look like a jumper. Nor did he look like he'd come to play the guitar.
"Well, it feels a bit wrong to bring this up to a dying man, but..."
He scratched his cheek awkwardly, looking up at the night sky alongside me.
"Usually, I just take what I need from cold corpses—offering a silent prayer and asking for permission they can't give. This is a bit of a departure from my routine, but I figured I should do this properly."
"...?"
As he spoke those cryptic words, he turned his head toward me and uttered something even more incomprehensible.
"Hey, friend. What do you think about your body becoming nourishment for someone else after you're gone?"
"...W-What?"
I managed to choke out the question through a mouth that barely functioned. The man scratched the back of his head, seemingly debating how to explain.
"There are... circumstances. There's a little girl I know. She can't eat normal food. Well, she 𝘤𝘢𝘯 swallow it, but she doesn't get the nutrients she needs. The problem is, the nutrition she requires is only found within the human body. She needs human meat to survive."
What was he talking about? I'd never heard of such a bizarre constitution...
...No, I had.
The shapeshifting monsters said to live in the shadows of the city. Beings that blended into human society and survived by preying on them. Their danger was immense, and while there were actual victims, they were often dismissed as urban legends by those who had never encountered one.
"A... Ghoul?"
Unless he was some kind of twisted cannibal with a fetish, that was the only conclusion. The man didn't deny it; he simply nodded. He felt no need to hide the truth from a man who would be dead within minutes.
"But you... you seem human..."
"I am."
"Then why... provide for a ghoul..."
"She's my daughter."
"...."
I was speechless. I thought the man was utterly insane, calling a human-eating monster his "daughter." But his gaze was too steady for a madman's. There wasn't a hint of hesitation in his voice when he used that word.
"Ah... ha... ha!"
For some reason, I started to laugh. I had lived a life of agonizing hardship, and fearing that the future held more of the same, I had thrown my life away. It was a cowardly escape. But now, that escape felt utterly ridiculous.
A human raising a monster that 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 eat humans as his own family?
Compared to a man living a life like that, what was my pain? The man looked calm, but I couldn't even begin to imagine the horrific price he paid for that composure. I'd wager my remaining guts that something invisible was slowly eating this man alive. Perhaps even at this very moment...
𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩! 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩!
A fit of coughing seized me. My diaphragm was failing. I felt foolish for wasting my final sparks of life on laughter, but then the man spoke again.
"You're going to die regardless. Isn't it better to bring a wide smile to a little girl's face than to simply rot in the dirt or be torn apart by hungry animals?"
"...."
I was born from trash, lived a trash life, failed at dying, and was about to end miserably. But it seemed that even a wretch like me could be of use.
I squeezed out the last of my strength to ask him one final, pointless question.
"Is your daughter... pretty...?"
"Exquisite. She's so precious it hurts just to look at her."
"Then to vanish... as nourishment for such a girl... is an... honor..."
With those words, my breath drifted away.
I felt as though I were being submerged in darkness. Even the stars in the night sky felt too dazzling to behold. I wanted to close my eyes, but my body no longer obeyed me.
The man's voice, closing my eyelids for me, sounded as comforting as a lullaby—or perhaps a prayer.
"May your body remain as nourishment for another, and may your soul finally find its rest."