He chowed down on the meat, its warm and tender flavor swimming through his mouth, into the deepest crevices of his mouth. It was still hot from the oven, as it had been removed from the heat no more than ten minutes ago. His light blue eyes were shut to the homely lighting of the dining room, the colors of the sunset at a beach. As he finished chewing his meat, he swallowed the chunk of meat.
    He slowly opened his eyes, exposing the irises the color of the sky on a sunny day. A small creature crouched on the polished wooden and ceramic table, its paws gently set on a placemat. He opened his mouth to speak, shaking his head disapprovingly at the cat.
    "Lecter, you know how I feel about the paws on the table." His voice spoke up. It was slightly raspy from disuse. The only real talking he ever did was to his cat, Lecter. Though a smile appeared on his lips, it did not follow his eyes. In his heart, there was no love for anyone. If anything, a small admiration for some, such as Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs. But he had no love for any. That was what made his job so easy.
    As if it had an understanding, the small tabby descended from the table, letting out a grunt as his forepaws hit the ground. He stalked away, his tail curled into the air. The two, human and cat, had a similar manner of everything they did. He looked back at his dinner meal, peas, carrots and his meat. He licked his chapped lips, feeling the dried and peeling skin touch the bottom of his tongue as he rubbed it over his lower lip. A smile appeared on his mouth, and it seemed all was peaceful.
    But just as all had seemed peaceful, it was interrupted. The ring of the phone echoed through the empty mansion, and Jeffery locked his hands in fists, putting his fork and knife, allowing them to rest on his cloth napkins. He slammed them on the table, anger sparking in his Carribean eyes.
    He stood up, the screeching of the chair resounding throughout the house. He planted his feet, stretching his legs to extend them. He turned to the side, silently admiring the painting that hung on his wall, a large Monet replica situated perfectly between the large entry hall toward the fireplace and living room and the bar. Why a bar was needed, he didn't know, but that wasn't necessary to know.
    The phone continued to ring, the buzzing sound getting to his head. He screamed that he was coming to the phone, anger exploding in his mind. Walking to the phone, the sound of the wedges on his shoes bounced off the walls, the sound filling the suddenly not so quiet house.
    He arrived at the phone, picking it up, unsurprised at the angry response from the caller. He waited for about fifteen seconds, the phone pulled a few inches from his ear. When the yelling finished, he put it back to his ear, ready to receive it.
    "Hello? This is Jeff West answering!" He replied sarcastically, anger resting in his dimmed voice, like a lightbulb that flickered, from bright to dark. On and off.
    "Jeffery. You know why I'm calling." The caller replied, his voice seemed muffled and distorted, the tone unnaturally low. "We need your delivery."
    "Yes, yes. I know, Linda. I'll get it in by tomorrow, okay?" He growled. "I just finished the harvest today."
    "Oh? Harvest? Is that what it's called now?" Linda replied. "Well, fine. Just get it in by the end of this week, and I'll have your money."
    "Thanks. It's the kidn-"
    "Yes, Jeffery. Just get it in, you idiot."
    "Geez! No need to be so rude." He replied. "Anyway, goodbye."
    "Goodbye Jeffery."
    What a tight-ass. The thought passed through his cluttered mind. Well, I guess it could be worse. He shrugged, walking back to his dinner, only to find it had gotten cold. Damn, Linda! I was eating, why did you have to call now?
    He returned back to eating, not enjoying it quite as much now. He swallowed it painfully, standing up, placing his used utensils atop the leftover food. Sighing deeply, he grabbed the dark gray plate, the color of a storm festering in the sky. He licked his chapped lips, his pupils festering wildly in the depths of his unforgiving mind. He walked to the kitchen, once again admiring his art. His hand reached for the handle of the water, pulling it upwards, hearing the flow, like a small waterfall in his kitchen. It was a familiar sound, really. One he didn't like much, but sometimes, you just had to live with it.
    After scraping the extra food off his plate, Jeff began to scrub it with a soap-covered sponge, watching as the bubbles formed and slowly popped, like his believability. Though, most of the time, those were mostly just popped bubbles. Lies, lies lies. What did it matter, really? Lying was just a way to escape your problems, truly. That's what he believed, anyway.
    The clank of ceramic hitting metal flashed through the kitchen as he placed his plate on the drying rack, leaving it there. It would be dry by morning. Nothing would happen until morning.
    He walked into his sitting room back through the dining room, the hallway opening up into it warmly lit, the light slightly tinted orange. He walked at a leisurely pace toward the homely room, his heart gently bumping against his chest. His eyes were surprisingly calm. It was his favorite time of day, after all. When everything was peaceful. He would sit in his great armchair with a blanket and a good book, the fire raging in its fireplace. Occasionally, music would play softly in the background, but he wasn't in the mood today. It was a quiet day today.
    Slowly, calmly, he strolled to his large, musty, wooden bookshelf, seeing the dusty spines of his well-loved books resting against each other within the dry oak. He went through his list of stories, his finger gently passing along their clothed spines.
    The gold lettering along the green cloth caught his eye. Among the Meadow People, by Clara D. Pierson. It was a wonderful collection, truly. A small golden worm wiggled the way up the spine, frozen in time. As he removed it from its place on the old wooden shelf, brushing the dust off the cover, he closed his eyes, if only just for a moment.
    The tattered cover held two gold-colored grasshoppers facing the center, where, above them, a small moth flew upwards to the heavens. The plain writing held the title, author and designer. He walked to his seat, not before starting the fire, the crackling a comforting sound resting in the background. Sitting down, he opened to a random story, finding The Day of the Great Storm. At least one story a night was fine.
    He began to read, the tale catching his interest. Though slightly childish in nature, everyone needed a relaxing night every once in awhile. He closed the book, once finished reading the story, resting his head on the padding of the armchair. It was a dull red, slightly pale from use. Though, it was still as comfortable as the day he bought it.
    He fell asleep in little time, falling into a dream with the crackling of the fire playing in the background.
✢✢✣✢✢
    There was a screaming. Loud, piercing the air. His heart pounded. The scream stayed strong. It took him a few minutes to recognize the fact that it was him. Cold, freezing, icy water flowed down his back and through his long, dark hair. The shower was running, the water exploding from the nozzle.
    Cruel eyes glinted above him, the light blocked by a shadow. He looked at them with fear, understanding what was happening. He was being punished.
    "I-i promise it won't happen again!" He shrieked, bawling. "I didn't mean it! I really didn't!"
    "You said that last time! Why would I believe you now?" The woman responded. "You're a liar. A dirty liar, Jeffery."
    His heart leapt in his chest, his eyes filling with terror, their edges sharp with guilt. What had he done? He knew it was something. It had to be something... Tears shrouded his face, his skin pale. He wasn't exposed to light much.
    "You're lucky, Jeffery. Your father is home. He's always less cruel, somehow. Get out, you idiot." His mother growled. It was the voice that haunted his mind daily. Her... She kept him home, every day. He had to do what he was told. He had to listen, or he would be given punishments. But they were his fault.. He didn't listen. "Come on."
    A towel dangled in front of his face as he exited the tub, his clothes wet, sticking to his body uncomfortably. He gingerly took it from her hands, wrapping it around himself, teeth chattering. He wiped his eyes, the tears still flowing.
    "What are you, a coward?" She asked him. "Man up, Jeffery. You're a coward."
    "I kn-know, Mother. I am a coward. I'm sorry." He whispered, his throat hurting. "I'll be braver, mother. I will be."
✢✢✣✢✢
    He sat bolt upright, his blanket falling onto the floor. Tears streamed down his face. He had reached the waking world. But was it much better? He sighed, sure hoping that it was better than his dreams.
    Every night, she haunted him. She screamed, her voice reaching all the way into his soul. A tremor of fear passed through his body, shaking him to his very core, his roots in the ground. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily. He opened them again, the light of the room orange and homely, the fire gently crackling in the background. Like a campfire in the night, the darkest night, the stars gently glistening far above your head, that's what it was. It was warmth on a frozen mountain. It was the comfort of his home. It made home home. Not just a house.
    He stood up, checking the clock on his wall, the hand gently ticking. The sound was quiet, but he could hear it. Quietly, slowly, it turned. Everlasting, it survived. Even if it was just a clock. The time read 5:40 AM. At least, he assumed it was the morning. He might as well wake up now. There was nothing wrong with an early morning. Sometimes.
    Turning to the entrance, his eyes followed his head, but not without stretching his arms above his head, his mouth widening in a yawn. Mornings were hard. At least most of the time. He exited, a breeze following him out. It was a warm breeze, created from his own movement, but it propelled him to keep moving forward.        
    The stairs faced him. They were long, reached the second floor. Elegant, made from polished wood, wide. The architects had designed it specifically on his request. They had been sweet, strangely enough. One would have expected a more tart kind of person to be an architect. That might have just been from his own personal experience. At least it had been pleasant to have them for dinner.
    Taking the first step, he could hear the meow of his cat, desperate for attention. He let out a short laugh, leisurely making his way up the stairs. Upon reaching the top, he directed himself to the right, heading to his room. His steps echoed through the hallway, the balcony looking down upon the lovely open house, small areas closed off to the naked view of the eye. The small rooms did not ruin the entire effect, however. They just made the house seem a bit smaller than it actually was. That was fine, though. It was just him in this house. Lecter,too.
    He finally reached his bedroom, his four-poster bed centering it. The elegant wardrobe sat in the corner, its head curved, with small flowers and birds carved delicately. Heading straight toward it, he grasped the handle between his fingers on his left hand, opening the door. The musty smell of the old closet ushered out with the trapped dust.
    His sky-colored eyes searched through, landing on a particularly engaging suit. He grabbed it out, brushing off the dust that had accumulated atop the black fabric of the coat. Laying it on his bed, he brushed it off, removing the coat, unbuttoning the shirt.
    He took off his robe that rested comfortably around his body, placing the shirt on his shoulders, his arms gently sliding into it. As he began to button it, his fingers were shaky. He was still taken aback from the dream, though it had recurred many times during his nights. One peaceful sleep was all that he asked for. Just one.
    It all passed in a blur. His socks, woolen, itching at his calves. His pants gently stretched over his legs. It was funny. On days like this, he looked almost normal. He wasn't, of course, but did anyone else have to know that?
          He straightened his coat, stuffing the handkerchief he had left on the bed. Good thing was, really no one knew where he was. No one to interrupt him suddenly, surprising him halfway through dinner. He looked around, a spotty mirror in the corner reflecting his appearance. He looked quite handsome, like a devil prepared to murder. He rubbed his hand across his whiskered face, frowning. He stepped forward, puffing out his chest broadly, trying to appear more confident and less tired.
          Ignoring the beard, he turned away, stepping into the hallway. He marched up the hallway to his bathroom, where many shining mirrors encompassed a sparkling bathtub and toilet. He walked in, opening the mirror cabinet, his trash shoved in the corners spilling out into his vision, the many medicines and skin products with their different labels and words confusing him. He sighed, taking a step back, the cluttered area messing with his vision.
          Moving forward again, he grasped his toothbrush and toothpaste, running the bristled under the flowing water. He spread toothpaste on it, beginning to rub it against his teeth vigorously, cleaning the leftover scraps of meat from his teeth.
          The rest of preparing himself for his day passed in a blur. His face was now clean shaven, his eyes bright and seemingly cheery. His hair had been patted down, the wild strands sticking with the flow.
          He went back down his stairs, listening to the sound of his footsteps carefully. The wind and rain pattered against his windows, filling the house with its dreadful sound. He stepped away from the steps, walking to his front door, where he had an umbrella and a pair of shoes laying messily.
           He grabbed the shoes, slipping them onto his sock-covered feet. He quickly tied the laces, finishing them up messily. He stood up, checking the watch on his wrist. The time read 6:30. He smiled. Right on time.
          He grabbed the umbrella, opening the door, a storm raging outside the frame. Opening the umbrella, he stepped outside, the wind beating at his body, trying to push him to the ground. He held his ground, walking to where he had parked his car in his sperperate garage.
          Upon reaching the small shed, he opened the side door, glad to be out of the pounding rain. But he had to do his groceries today. He would also begin finding his next meal for tonight, but for lunch, some nice Italian food would be fine, preferably a warm soup.
           He opened the car door, stepping in, grabbing the keys out of his pocket where he had put them. He started the engine, the motor from the old car igniting. He opened his garage, driving out slowly, the heater on high. It was cold outside, even if it had been 25 degrees out yesterday. Oh, the joys of Canada.
          He drove down the road that snaked slowly through the forest, the rain pounding wildly at his windshield, his wipers flashing back and forth in front of his eyes. It was kind of surprising he could even see them. He continued driving, realizing the only sound he was driving to was the sound of his heart beating and the rain. That simply wouldn't do.
          He reached for the radio, turning the music up. It was his favorite station. The sweet sound of Andrea Bocelli's voice filled the car, overpowering the tormenting sound of the rain shuddering against the glass. He relaxed, touching his hand to his temple and rubbing it slowly. He yawned widely, blinking his eyes slowly.
          The world opened up into a wide-cut field as far as the eye could see. Only one place was blocked from his view. There was a small town on the horizon, and he was heading straight towards it. The road, though twisted, was at least paved, unlike the one that lead to his house.
          Upon reaching the town, he drove through its main streets, the road and sidewalk empty and dull. No one wanted to be out at  seven  in the morning, especially not on a rainy day. He was the only one, making his weekly run to town for his groceries. Today, it seemed he would actually spend more time. He loved it when the city was quiet, no one to crowd his mind or the streets.
          He stopped the car. He had reached the supermarket, with its cheesy signs, its loud colors shouting about fresh produce every day. He sighed, ignoring the signs, and parking in the practically empty lot. It was open by this time, but no one logically went to buy groceries at seven in the morning.
          Stepping out of his car, he grabbed the umbrella, flipping it up against the rain. He rushed into the store, the automatic doors opening just as his umbrella closed. He stepped inside, the heater rushing over him. He shivered
, feeling small goosebumps appear on his arms and legs. His eyes traveled to the cashier as she waved at him. He smiled.
    "Hey, Edna. What's going on?" He greeted the older woman. "Nice day, huh?"
    "Good morning, Jeffery. And you always were the funny one of my customers. How is it at the house?" The cashier asked sincerely. "How is your cat? What was his name? I never can seem to remember..."
          "It's doing wonderfully at my house. I made myself some delicious dinner last night.. The vegetables were so flavorful and fresh tasting. I suppose I have to thank the best grocery store in town for that." Jeffery smiled. "And his name is Lecter. He's doing perfectly fine, I came by to pick up some food for him, and for me today, Edna."
          "Oh you young people and your obsession with the television. It's Lecter, as in Hannibal Lecter, yes? I saw that movie once, I was awfully scared. But anyway, I guess you better get to your shopping. I mean, you do only come once a week."
          "Edna, I would come more, just to talk with you. You're so incredibly kind!"
          "Thank you, Jeffery! No, go on you. To your shopping!" She ushered his off, smiling.
          What a wonderfully kind woman! The thought raced through his mind. More people should be like her, and then maybe they wouldn't get killed!
          He traced down the aisles, passing the meat section. His face curled in disgust. Humans really shouldn't eat the flesh of other creatures, it was simply disgusting. If anything, cannibalism was a much healthier option. But whatever, humans would never learn anything.
          He came across the snacks aisle, looking down it, many boxes of packaged, processed foods lined the shelves. He might look down on eating the meat of other animals, but everyone had their bad habits, besides, how would heat eat his cheese and crackers without the crackers? He rushed and grabbed the box with 8 packages, gently setting it in the basket he had grabbed after talking with Edna.
          The soup was also in the same aisle, the pre-canned kind. Their colorful labels caught his eye, and he turned to it, seeing a can labeled "Italian Minestrone." He smiled. It was just what he had been looking for. Delicious. He grabbed two cans, figuring extra was never awful. Well, most of the time.
          He stepped out of the hallway, feeling exhaustion drag at his bones. His stomach grumbled loudly, and he turned to the rain outside, the windows at the front letting in natural light. Breakfast seemed delicious at that moment in time. Perhaps going out for breakfast wouldn't have a bad effect on his schedule. He had, after all, just found food for dinner yesterday. He didn't have any perishables, either. An early meal sounded just fine.
          He looked down in his basket, remembering the cat food. He quickly made his way over to the aisle, grabbing the canned wet food, and a medium-sized bag of dry food with a happy cat on the front. He placed the canned food in his basket, making his way to the cash register.
          "I do believe I'm finished, Edna. I'm going out for breakfast this morning. I'm rather famished, and wouldn't mind a few pancakes or such."
           "That's understandable. You are here earl. You can't have possibly had time to eat his morning." Their quiet conversation flourished over the repetitive beeping sound of the machine as Edna checked him out. "Your total is 36.50."
          "Okay, thank you Edna." He muttered, handing her the money in the form on two twenties. "Here you go."
         "You're very welcome, Jeffery." She replied, handing him his change. "Have a nice day."
          He nodded in response, heading out the door to a small breakfast nook down the road. He had often heard tales of their incredible breakfast, but had never actually lived through it.
          He stepped in after walking there, removing his jacket and placing it on the coat rack. He was greeted una friendly manner by one of the employees, a smile spread on her face.
          "Good day, sir." She greeted. "Is it just a table for one, then? Or is someone else joining you?"
          "Just me, thank you."
          "Alright, then let me lead you to your seat."
          The rest of the meal was quick. He ordered a coffee, receiving it at a fast pace. The nook was quite empty, only one other older man who seemed homeless sitting at a table in the corner. By the time he had finished his breakfast, the other man had left to who knows where.
          He asked for the check, and received it, paying his small total of about 15. He payed happily, getting ready to leave. By the door, he saw a sign that seemed as if it had been stapled up messily. Its contents made him quite shaky, and he realized the mistake he had made in coming here.
          On the sign, it read:  WANTED; DEAD OR ALIVE:  JEFFERY WEST.
          A small description of him ensued as his hand started to get shaky, his palms beginning to sweat. He wasn't normally nervous, but he took this as a reason to be nervous. His heart pattered the pace of an Irish dancer in his chest, his eyes searching wildly. He turned to the outside, to see police cars pulling up, the chief of police, Dana Morgan, walking up to him.
           "Good morning, Jeffery West. Nice day, hm? At least, for me it is." Her cruel voice tainted his mind, seeping words into his brain. "I hope you'll enjoy being hanged for your crimes."
           "You'll have to catch me first." His voice was heard as he took off running down the road, a last desperate attempt to escape. "Bye!"
          He was stopped, however. Rough hands grabbed his arms, his slight musculature not aiding his escape. He shrieked in pain, though he wasn't experiencing pain. It was all his own fault, he knew. But it was just so hard.
          How was he supposed to be a cannibal without murdering?