It is his last meal.
He doesn’t know. He stares wide eyed at the large bowl filled with semovita, his favorite dish and the plate of banga soup with an assortment of meat. Saliva pools in his mouth and threatens to overflow. His throat bobs as he swallows.
Minutes later, beads of sweat grace his brows as he leans back on the dinning chair, his abdomen several centimeters bigger in circumference. He licks his lips, closes his eyes and relish the memory of the sumptuous meal.
The clock chimes eight. It is time for Crime Scene Investigation, his favorite soap on TV.
He is unable to stand from the chair.
‘I must be too full’ he thinks, chuckling softly. ‘It seems my stomach capacity is reducing for this amount of food to knock me down’
He tries again.
‘Something is not right’ an alarm goes off in his head. ‘My feet looks like they are stuck!’
Panic rises to the surface and his eyes grow wide.
‘I can’t move my legs’ his mind screams ‘I can’t move my hands too!’
He screams. What comes out is an inaudible gurgle.
‘What is happening to me? Wait a minute, why is my heart not beating fast? I am afraid, scared shitless but my heart is not racing!’
He moves to feel his heart beat, his hands remain fixed by his side. The room begins to fade too, and it becomes increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open.
Clarity comes and he welcomes it without fuss. ‘I am dying’
Breathing is difficult too, he notices.
Just before he passes out, a face looms over him, smiling down at him.
“Hope you enjoyed the meal dear?”
Her chuckle is the last sound he hears before the darkness envelopes him.