The Low-Fat Harvest
They told Carl low-fat was the path to health. Clean arteries. Longer life. A glow from the inside. They did not mention the smell of spoiled yogurt that would cling to his skin, or the way his saliva would start tasting like wet gypsum.
By week three, the hunger felt alive. It was not the “oh I could eat” kind. This was the hunger that paced, planned, and whispered in the quiet hours. He started hearing it in the pantry. At first it was a murmur under the shuffle of cereal boxes, but soon the words were clear.
"We will hollow you out," said the low-fat crackers. "We will suck the marrow first."
He laughed nervously and switched to rice cakes. The rice cakes giggled back.
By week six, his reflection stopped behaving. When he leaned over a pot of steamed broccoli, the metal lid showed him a face too thin, with eyes sunk deep like spoiled plums. Its mouth moved when his did not. "We are almost ready to take you," it said.
The kitchen began to turn. Milk curdled into a skin that writhed before he could throw it away. The fridge hummed in a minor key. Nutrition labels rearranged themselves when he looked too long, ingredients spelling out words like “REND” and “SUCCULENCE” and “LIVER.”
His weight dropped, but so did the healthy parts. His fingernails loosened like wet cardboard flaps. His teeth lengthened slightly, yellowed like candle wax left in a fire. He could taste iron in his throat even without biting his tongue.
By month three, the hunger was not his anymore. It belonged to the food. The low-fat margarine spread itself thin on the counter overnight, forming an oily silhouette of a human rib cage. The blender whined when idle, as if eager to liquefy something warm.
Carl dreamed of peeling the skin from people like an orange. He woke up licking his lips. His wife’s breathing next to him sounded like the hiss of fat in a pan, only there was no fat anymore. He had not tasted fat in months.
The email came. Congratulations, Carl. You have reached Optimal Burn State. His stomach convulsed. His reflection, now a grinning skeleton wrapped in waxy sinew, gave a slow nod. "Now you feed us."
That night the pantry door swung open without a breeze. The air was heavy with the stench of rancid oil and boiling cabbage. Everything inside pulsed as if it had a heartbeat. The low-fat crackers screamed, the margarine hissed, and the blender roared to life.
The next morning his wife found the kitchen drenched in something thick and yellow. There was no sign of Carl except for a single nutrition label stuck to the fridge. It read simply: Calories: 0. Fat: 0g. Soul: Consumed.
And in the pantry, the margarine was gone.
