After the crash I became chef. In my element in our makeshift kitchen or tipped over the edge, peering into an abyss lined with limbs, livers, ligaments, staring eyeballs and human chops and steaks.
Johnny and I had adjoining seats. Shorts and flipflops. Lovely feet. We talked like we’d known each other years. His motorbikes and carpentry. My restaurant career.
I boil up bones. George hangs strips of meat to dry. The others can't deal with this. Can't ignore their thoughts and just eat. They vomit behind trees during supper. There’s always someone sobbing at night.
Brown sugar, spices, paprika and thyme. Amazing what you find rummaging through luggage. I’m saving the last lemon. Mary’s nearly ready.
Johnny’s feet tonight. He deserves some spice. I score the skin and massage in dry rub. I hum loudly to block out his story about finding his Mum. Their reunion won’t happen now.
George found sweet chilli sauce in the cockpit. We ate the pilot first. Can’t think about that too much.
I dab sauce onto each of Johnny's toes. His feet still look beautiful. They’ll be so tender.
I want to survive. Whatever it takes.
Mmmmm. Delicious. Johnny’s feet. Hot and sweet.