It was ancient, that much I could tell. It sat like seeds in my hand. It didn’t do much of anything.   

     “Eggs,” I thought, because they were. I added them to my concoction, watched it soak up the liquid and begin to grow.  

     This new thing I had created pulsed and grew and rose from its birthplace, its sinews attaching themselves to each other, growing stronger, more resilient. Pulling it apart was surprisingly easy; its sticky skin separated into useless strings that hung from my fingers. It had grown to twice the size of my fist, already too big, too alive. I knew it would only grow bigger. 

     It loved to feed. That’s all it did, really. It sucked up every morsel around it like a vacuum, gorging itself on scraps. It ate and then it slept and then when it woke up, it ate again. I tried to starve it. I put it away in a dark corner where it couldn’t touch anything. It didn’t work.  

     I loathed touching it. Its soft body was covered in damp skin, and it had this sweet smell to it, like wine.  

     It wasn’t growing right. I didn’t know what I’d done, but something had gone awry, and now I was here, with these awful thoughts spreading through my head like the veins of it had infected my brain.  

     I tried suffocating it. I put the damp thing in a bowl and wrapped a sheet of plastic wrap over the top. It pulsed and breathed, and eventually I had grown so sickened at the sight of it that I had to walk away from the room. I came back the next day and it had risen like a zombie, its death bringing a sick sort of life to it. I gasped, horrified. Fluid had leaked out of it, a gross watery substance that burned when I touched it. I brought it out of the bowl, cradling it like a baby.  

     I set it down on my countertop and sent my fist down on it, it’s body deflating. It had filled up with gas overnight, getting fat off carbon dioxide. I felt a sick satisfaction with its body getting smaller, its life diminishing.  

     I stopped for a moment. It breathed once more, its body shaking with its inhalation.  I was at my limit.  

     I grabbed a knife from the drawer, sharp silver glinting in the light. I felt no hesitation as I pressed the length of the knife to it and cut down. It separated cleanly in two, like cells splitting.

     I chopped it again, into fourths. It didn’t seem upset, all four of its bodies breathing in unison now. I chopped again and again, wanting it out of my sight. I wanted it to be miniscule, to be nothing. I settled for sixteen pieces.  

     It was still breathing, though, long, slow, tortuous breaths. I collected all the pieces and placed them on a baking sheet, set apart in lines like cookie dough. I turned the oven on, too hot for anything to live, and placed the pieces on the rack. I closed the door and watched as the heat seeped into its body, warming it up from the outside in. I sat down across from it and watched for hours as it struggled to breathe in the heat until it finally stopped breathing at all.  

     I took it out and stared at it for a while. I poked it with a finger and yelped when my fingertip was burnt. It was soft and spongy, golden brown. I waited till dinner and felt the heat from it die down, until it wasn’t anything but a squishy dead thing on my counter, waiting to be served.  

     My family came over at 7 o’clock, right on time. I watched as they grabbed the pieces, greedy fingers flying fast. The shoveled it into their mouths, lips smacking grotesquely. I was praised the entire evening for the delicacy I had created.