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Horrors appear daily at every newspaper - indeed, it is for horror and shock that most purchase such papers - and, so advanced are our times, and few of what is printed can hardly appal our modern day society. Yet one morning my eyes widened themselves upon falling on a newspaper. Immediately I purchased it, and upon reading it better, I felt my insides turn about in agony and disgust. Later on, while I pondered how such atrocity could be committed with a clear conscience, realization came upon me, and while I was horrified of even considering such abomination, I found it also quite interesting - much to my shock. Now, what was printed on the newspaper that would make my very mind shiver, when all human nightmares had been printed before? Nothing less than the barbaric act of cannibalism. According to the newspaper, a chef in Paris had been arrested after been discovered kidnapping a young boy. In his home, they found human meat in his fridge, and when arrested, the man himself admitted that he had consumed human flesh, and that the boy served him no other purpose but that of a meal.

While at first the idea sickened me, it eventually grew on me that perhaps that man would not be so great a beast as I had painted him. After all, are not humans flesh and bones, just as pigs, just as cows? My first reactions were of shaking heavily my head, and trying not to think of it; yet this fell useless, as I came to find out.

I visited a chef with whom I shared a friendship, for the completion of a study I was enrolled in - based upon the opinion of common, ordinary people - which dealt with the five senses. All know these senses very well: tact, taste, vision, hearing and smell. Daily we use them, without noticing thus. In the creation of perfumes, one but smells two compounds and mix those together in his mind - I am, of course, aware that much more is done besides that, but that is merely the embodiment, so to speak, of the fragrance already envisioned on the mind. Upon the writing of this text, I know (though I do only notice as it is my intent to do so) that the senses I am primarily enforcing are those of tact - to feel the pen on my hand, and to understand well the force needed to be applied to write well and not break - and of vision - to see well what I am writing. After the completion of this study, I can very well declare that one the common professions taken by the people that uses the most senses is that of a chef. First one must choose the ingredients by vision and by tact; after that phase is concluded, one begins the cooking, and in thus employs the use of smell and vision again; afterwards, when the dish is cooked, one must taste it to determine whether it is done well or not.

While I fascinated myself at how different the same food could taste with different sauces, my friend explained that there were a million of known ways to prepare food, and even more unknown. It was all a matter of experiment; to use different ingredients, to cook in different ways. Seeing him prepare such beautiful and pleasant dishes delighted my mouth and puzzled my brain, and, at length, I decided to attend to a widely known cooking school in my neighbourhood. My grades were amongst the finest ever seen, and I excelled in every aspect in the cuisine.

Around that time, I started to date a woman of approximately my age that was in the same class as me, and when we both graduated, we got married. We both found happiness in the kitchen, preparing our dinners and lunches side by side. That happiness lasted but a short time, when, alas!, poverty knocked hard upon our door.

We were forced to sell all of our belongings but our clothing, and moved from our rich home to a filthy, decadent apartment. We survived as we could for a while, but at length we were forced to starve, sometimes days, to provide a roof above our heads. All this caused a change in me; from a happy, loving man, I had become a brooding, depressive shadow.

One day, as I came home from a walk outside, I found my wife kneeled on a corner, with her back turned to the door. Puzzled, I slowly approached her, and tapped gently on her shoulder. Frightened, she turned, revealing what she was hiding - a half bitten bread, which she wasted no time to put on her mouth and finish. At first we were both silent, I being too shocked to speak, and she too ashamed; finally, rage came to me, and I began to yell at her, angered that she would hide food from me, her husband, and she too yelled, saying that she was starving, and calling me many names, some too fowl to be written here. Shuddering with rage, I could bear her insults no longer; and so, taking her face in my hands, I snapped her neck. Her limp body fell before me, a dying squeal on her throat. I fell upon my knees, aghast at my own actions. I could hear the poundings of my heart in my very ears; I could even feel it in my throat. And while my vision would not abandon the corpse in front of me, a sudden smell flowed into my nose, causing me to quiet myself. This smell was unlike any I had ever known. Before I could notice the source of this smell, my mouth began to water, and my mind filled with images of the delight of fine cuisine, which I did not taste in a long - oh so very long ago it was! - time. Instantly my eyes fell upon my dead wife. I sniffed more, and the more I sniffed, the more convinced I was that she was the source of that delicious smell. Crawling slowly, I approached her, and began to sniff her better. I needed to be sure, it all seemed so dreamy, so clouded, yet there it was, the undisputable source of the smell. Long I stood at her side observing her corpse - or at least, it seemed so - and the more I stood nearby, the more that scent would penetrate my soul, until at last I could no longer contain myself and began to rip off her clothes. Upon doing so, the fragrance came in oceans against me, and seemed to mesmerize me, for I could no longer rationalize. My mind produced no thoughts, and my stomach roared loudly, like a primal beast. Viciously I bit down on her breast, ripping of a piece of her and munching hard. Ah, there was delight in that dark, tenebrous moment, I now shame myself of it, but there was. So overjoyed was I that my eyes even began to wept of pure joy. The flavour, the taste, of the meat palpitated in my tongue, in my throat, and at last seemed to overtake my whole body. I took another bite, and another, one after the other, devouring her corpse with the hunger of a wild brute, when suddenly a strong knock came to the door, and the door opened itself, and soon the room was filled with policemen, who looked at me half-disgusted, half-scared, guns pointed at me - trembling, but nonetheless pointed at me.

I later came to find out that my landlord had heard the discussion between me and my wife, and upset at the noise, had gone upstairs to see what was wrong, and had seen me break her neck. Aghast at this, he had called the police, and in no less than ten minutes - how time seemed so much longer in that room - they were at my door, ready to take me into custody for murder. Yet right when they were about to enter and take me, I had began my brutal feast. They were aghast by the sounds and the visions, which they could see through a small creak between the wall and the door, which showed to a mirror which in turn reflected me devouring my wife. At length they gained courage to enter, and now I lie in a dungeon awaiting execution. I have no doubt that my case shall make it to the front page of every newspaper, and that I shall be viewed as a monster - yet that is not my concern. I was hungry, and that had made me delirious.

Now all that awaits me is death and the eternal sleep on a nameless grave.