Deathbed Confessions of the Criminally Insane

by Jack Steen

  In order to live, one must first die…wasn’t that a saying some famous psychiatrist once said? No? Hmm…someone should have.

  Preacher never cared to help our Father make these meals. His head was in the clouds or in his books, never in the food he ate.

  So many times I can remember him sitting at the kitchen table, his nose stuck in a book while shovelling the food into his mouth, never noticing what he ate or the amount of work it took to make those meals.

  But it was important to our Father, and so it became important to me.

  I was probably twelve when I made my first real meal. Spaghetti with homemade meatballs. My father claimed it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. Of course, this meant I wanted to cook more often…the need for his love and approval and all that.

  Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. That the need for my father’s approval is what pushed me into this life. I’m so sick of being examined like a cockroach with special abilities.

  Why do we have to psycho analyze everything? Why can’t someone just do an act because they love the other person?

  Tell me, Jack, what was the last thing you did for someone you loved?

  What do you mean there’s no one in your life you love.

  Surely you have parents or a girlfriend, or even a boyfriend?

  Oh…I see, this isn’t a story about you, well, I’m not asking for your story, I’m just asking for your understanding.

  I cooked for my family because I loved them.

  Preacher could make grilled cheese or boil pasta.

  My father was often busy and appreciated having a hot meal waiting for him on the table.

  It’s what a wife would do for her husband, isn’t it?

  What’s so wrong with a child doing the same?

  Sure, he taught me how to cook…what’s so wrong with that? Life skills, it’s what parents are supposed to teach their children, aren’t they?

  12

  CHEF:

  * * *

  When I was sixteen years old, my father asked me to help him create a stew for a mourning family. It was in the middle of a cold spell and the memorial service for their grandfather was the following afternoon.

  It was time I learn how to make these special dishes.

  I still remember that stew. Tongue, potatoes, carrots and beans. Nothing fancy and yet perfect for the family. Their grandfather used to lead the choir in their church back in the day. The old man was known to belt out his favorite songs in the nursing home, if I remember it correctly.

  Father liked to make meals relatable to the person and family, if you didn’t guess that all ready.

  Father had the tongue sitting in a metal bowl full of hot water. A broth had already been prepared and he taught me how to properly slice a tongue from its casing and then cut it up.

  Tongue really is quite easy to cook with once you understand how to prepare it. But you have to be careful, otherwise the tongue will be…well, hard, rough, tough like leather.

  I will always remember making that first dish with him.

  We stood side by side chopping up the vegetables, my father explaining all the steps required for making the stew. I listened to each step, memorizing it in detail so I would never forget.

  My memory is like a magnet. Everything I see, everything I read, everything I hear sticks. All I needed to do was cook a meal once and I would remember it. Show me a recipe once, and I’d file it away. Tell me your secret and I’ll never forget.

  My father kept all his recipes in a small green rubber box. The lid broke at one point so he used a large rubber band to keep it closed. The only times I ever saw those recipe cards were when he was cooking. For years, I had no idea where he kept that box, and trust me, I looked.

  Like a proper cook, you had to try your dish before you serve it to others.

  Father made me taste the stew, asked about the seasoning, the texture, how it made me feel.

  I always thought that odd…asking how a dish made you feel.

  I get it now though.

  I still remember the clasp on my shoulder once the stew was ready. His grip was firm, the smile on his face full of pride.

  It was a simple dish and yet in that moment, I could have won a gold metal at the world olympics and he couldn’t, no, he wouldn’t have been any more proud of me as he was right then and there.

  13

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  You remember the first time you were acutely aware of being on the receiving end of that pride from your own father, Jack? Remember how it made you feel?

  I could do anything. Be anything. Be anyone in that moment.

  I would do anything for him. Anything.

  When I set that stew pot on the table the following day for the family, I remember feeling the need to do this again. Serve someone else. Help someone else. Love someone else.

  Because that’s what that was all about, Jack. Love. Loving another family in their time of need.

  Nothing you can say or do will change my mind about that.

  Every dish I made after that, every family I served those meals to…it was all done in love.

  I see the skepticism on your face.

  I noticed how your hand hesitated when I said that.

  You don’t believe me, do you?

  You think love is beneath me or beyond my capability?

  Just because they call me a psychopath doesn’t mean I’m incapable of love.

  I would argue it’s the one emotion I can feel deeper than anyone else.

  Even you.

  You have a question, I can see it in your eyes.

  Did I know where the meat my father used came from?

  What kind of question is that? Of course I did.

  Eventually.

  I only ever had one other job, other than working at the funeral home. Any guesses what it could be?

  No, not a grocery store clerk or newspaper boy. Think Jack, really think.

  Ahh…you know, don’t you? This is something no one has ever found out. Why would they, the shop I worked at closed years ago and its barely a blimp in anyone’s memory now.

  I landed a part time job at the butcher shop. My father said it would be good for me to have some extra money.

  But we both know this job was for training purposes, isn’t that right, Jack.

  Ahh…that smile on your face, clever, isn’t it?

  In another life, being a butcher would have been quite…satisfying for me. What’s that nursery rhyme…the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker? In my case it was the butcher, the baker, the body caretaker.

  I dream about my training days. The closer death gets the more I think about how it all began. That’s when I learned what happiness tasted like.

  I crave that taste now.

  You don’t understand what it’s like to take that away from someone. Jail isn’t four walls.

  Prison isn’t a sentence handed down.

  No, the life I’ve been living … it’s hell.

  To be denied my cravings. To be forced to wear a mask of civility and indifference. To have my calling ripped from me…that’s hell.

  I’ve always appreciated our chats, Jack. More than you know. You’ve never treated me like a lab rat, a test subject or a monster. You remind me of what life was like before I came here.

  14

  CHEF:

  * * *

  The butchery in the basement.

  Ingenious, wasn’t it?

  Growing up, the door to the basement was always locked. I used to try the handle, when no one was looking, in case Father ever forgot to lock it behind him.

  Never once did it open for me. I knew it wouldn’t, but I still had to try. It became a quest for me to find out what was hidden in the basement of our home.

  Whenever we saw Father open the door, it was to retrieve meat for one of his special dishes. We were never permitted to go through that door, not even to stand at the top of the stairs and call down to him.


  Preacher never broke that rule. He would wait beside the door, refusing to even watch as Father descended the staircase.

  Me, I’d always look. I’d stand right at the edge, sometimes toeing my foot past the door frame, waiting to see if my Father would notice.

  He always noticed.

  He would stand on the stair, never turning, never looking back at me, just…waited. Waited for me to step back.

  I don’t know how he knew, but he always did. He never said anything. Never punished me for seeing how far I could bend his rule, but then, he didn’t have to either.

  One look was all it took.

  He’d stand in front of me, hands clasped behind his back, his lips set in a straight line, his forehead creased with lines.

  He never said a word. He’d only look at me.

  I could read everything he would have said in his eyes.

  The disappointment. The patience. The knowledge that I was yearning to know more but I wasn’t quite ready.

  I hated that look.

  The first time my father opened the door to the basement and invited me to walk down before him…that was the day I knew I was ready.

  The butchery had been set up created generations ago, before before my grandfather, contrary to what was said in the papers.

  I inherited the…profession. The passion. It was a gift bestowed on the eldest son.

  A gift handed down from generations to generations. Even before we crossed the Atlantic, our family were Death Eaters in the old country. It’s what we did. It’s who we were. Who we are.

  There was probably always a butchery, no matter the generation, no matter the home.

  The set up changed over the years, of course.

  As did the house.

  Preacher was a carpenter for a reason. Our property was to have always stayed in the family. The house was always there. Always growing. Always being worked on but only by one of our own. The funeral home was added…later. As a necessity.

  My father had one freezer in the basement. I installed the second and the third.

  My father only ever used the meat from one source. I…expanded that a little.

  I was eighteen when my father unlocked the door to the basement and invited me into his world.

  I was eighteen when my life was changed…forever.

  15

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  The heart is like a capsule, locking in our essence.

  Did you know that, Jack?

  It’s who we are as a person.

  It’s loaded with protein and vitamins and for an organ that is constantly working, it’s surprisingly tender.

  I’ve often thought about what your heart would taste like. Would it be hard? Tough? Difficult to chew? No. I have a feeling your heart would melt-in-my-mouth after it’s been marinated with some garlic butter.

  Don’t look at me like that, Jack.

  Don’t pretend you’re disgusted.

  We’re such deprived as a society nowadays.

  Humans were born hunters, with a thirst for red meat, regardless of it’s form.

  Do you think the Denisovans, oh sorry, you’re not familiar with that term? Neanderthals, Jack. Our ancestors who walked the early during the last ice age. The first Denisovan, Neanderthals, Cavemen, whatever you want to call them, were found in Siberia, but surely you know that, right?

  Do you honestly think they buried their dead without honoring it first?

  Ancient hunters knew what it took to honor the dead. You didn’t leave anything to rot. Everything had a purpose.

  Not like now when all they do is throw the guts of an animal in a waste pail and leave it for the garbage.

  Jack, your own ancestors practiced cannibalism, and a few centuries ago they used to think that partaking in human flesh, bone, blood and even urine would cure the most common ailments.

  Hunters used to marinate the heart with salt and pepper, a little bit of vinegar and thyme and then fry it over an open flame.

  My favorite is if you rub it with ground chile peppers and cumin and then skewer it with shards of onion and peppers. Or if you stuff it with bacon, garlic salt, onion and celery…

  My point, cannibalism isn’t new.

  Sorry, I can see you don’t share my passion for the preparation of food. A little queasy are you?

  Try some water there, Jack. Go ahead, I can wait.

  Death isn’t always an easy subject to discuss.

  We all have our own feelings about it. Are you ready, Jack? I am.

  I don’t have much time left. I know death is waiting with welcoming arms and I’m okay with that. But you, Jack? Are you ready?

  16

  CHEF:

  * * *

  I was eighteen when my whole world changed.

  That’s the day my father handed me the key to the basement. He didn’t say a word, just placed that key in my hand and waited for me to open the door to my future.

  For a moment I froze and my first thought was if my Father noticed.

  Every step I took on those stairs, the nausea in my gut intensified. I’m sure I shook like a flag pole in a storm. My grip on the railing was firm but my legs were anything but.

  The thud of my shoes were soft, hesitant.

  My fathers were loud, sure.

  The echo of his steps hurt my ears.

  Preacher and I often speculated what would be in the basement.

  He wanted it to be a man cave.

  I thought there might be some dead bodies buried beneath the floors.

  I was partially right.

  Parts of dead bodies but in the freezer, not buried beneath the floor.

  17

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  There you have it, Jack. My confession.

  For what it’s worth.

  Did I know about the frozen organs in the freezer beneath the floorboards of the home I grew up in?

  Was I aware that my father would harvest these organs and then fry, broil, sauté or bake said organs and feed to multiple grieving families?

  Yes.

  I knew.

  Are you surprised? Shocked? Disgusted?

  You’re not saying anything, Jack.

  I think that means you knew.

  I’ve told you some things you weren’t aware of though, right? A man likes to think he held his secrets well.

  Thank you.

  18

  CHEF:

  * * *

  That basement. The key. My father’s wary look as he waited for me to unlock the door. It was a moment in time I will never forget and that is saying a lot since I have multiple unforgettable moments.

  Those first few footsteps down the stairs, it was like stepping into my destiny.

  The smell…I got an erection the moment that smell blanketed me. It was heedy, clean with a hint of mint.

  The sterile environment I walked into didn’t surprise me, didn’t make me question what was happening…it seemed very normal.

  And bright. There was so much light I remember shielding my eyes for a moment.

  My father was meticulous about cleanliness. A little OCD, for sure. Nothing set him off like a mess, he despised laziness and that’s what mess was to him. Someone too lazy to clean after themselves.

  The basement, once you get past the dungeon look of the stairs, is white.

  White tiled walls, white floor. Stainless steel sink and counter along the one wall. A freezer on the other. A large double door straight ahead.

  Those doors were open and I recognized the hallway beyond.

  In all my years of exploring every nook and cranny of the funeral home, I never noticed these doors before. I recognized the area, it was the hall in the basement of the funeral home. But it’d always been a blank wall, no doors, no handles, which would make sense why I never noticed it before. It’s also a wall that wasn’t lit very well, the only light was down the hall, close to the examination rooms and broom closet, which would help to hide the door seams
.

  The examination room is where we hold bodies that arrive from the hospital or nursing home. In that room, they are cleaned, dressed, prepared them for their viewing and for their cremation.

  This room, in our basement, was almost an exact duplicate of the examination room, a room my father refurnished himself.

  It took me a moment to notice the body on the table in the middle of the room. You’d think that would be the first thing I noticed, but looking back, I believe I was so used to seeing the bodies that of course it wouldn’t stand out.

  My father never said a word. He let me take it all in. He watched me, like a owl with a mouse in sight, I could feel his gaze on me, burning me.

  You would think I’d be scared. Nervous. Frightened. Shocked. Horrified. Confused.

  Any normal person would.

  I just smiled. Smiled as if I’d just been handed the worlds largest lollipop and told I could take all the time I wanted in sucking it.

  I was so hard, too.

  My father slapped my back and laughed, as if he knew the effect this had on me.

  I dream of that day. I replay that moment in my head over and over and over.

  That was the day I really became a man.

  19

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  Jack, do you remember your words the first day we met?

  No? I do.

  Here’s what you said to me. :Chef, I have a promise I will make to you now. My face will be the last you’ll ever see, my touch the most gentlest, your death the most peaceful if you will agree to one condition. Your story. The one you’ve waited to tell at the very end. Tell me that story and I will make the end easy.”

  You’ve kept your end of the deal, Jack. You’ve made things very easy for me in here. They call you the Angel of Death. Take it for what it is - a compliment.