I sat in a series of darkened rooms and ate my own heart – or what was left of it, after you. It was better to be rid of it than feel it withering away inside me. It was the only way to stop you corroding it further. It wasn’t exactly fast food. All that sinew, tubes and gristle, cold and tough and bloody. It took a while. Often I wondered what I was doing and why I was doing it, and often I felt ashamed and saddened as I hid away alone and chewed down the last few twitching mouthfuls.
Then I washed my hands and cleaned my face and got on with pretending to live.