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The first time Midousuji had gotten registered he remembers being upset. His aunt and uncle had been told that it was unusual but not unheard of for someone his age to be signed up, and that it wouldn’t be hard to make accommodations. He’d been stripped down, photographed and touched in ways one would only touch an avocado to see if it’s ripe or not. They’d written about him in a book and told him what lovely teeth he had, and sent him on his way with his stand-in parents, along with a tasteless cookie.
He cried on the ride home, and his aunt and uncle had chided him, telling him that he was so mature in the office, why is he acting up now?
It wasn’t until later that he finally realized what it meant that he was taken in and photographed like that. There were other kids like that, kids who’d disappear halfway through the school year, but took his history books reached the chapter on modern farming that he realized that the practice of cattle wasn’t as left in the past as he’d previously thought it was.
To him it’d seemed like a far off world, like a king or a queen. Sure, it existed, but not in any real context that mattered. But now he realized that his life after his mother was anything but his own, and he could be meeting her again sooner that he’d imagine.
He’d yelled and screamed at his aunt and uncle, asking them why, but they dismissed him, telling him that all of the other children acted much more adult about it, that he was lucky enough to be registered and not just immediately sold. If only his mother had signed him up earlier, then her life would have lived much more comfortably before she passed. That’s what it took to quiet Akira, who instead just holed himself in his bare room, hiding under his blanket.
Two years passed, and he was no longer afraid of updating his registry. Puberty had hit him in a way that made him undesirable, his passion for cycling had deformed his legs and thinned the rest of him. He was never beautiful by any means, but as time went on his price dropped dramatically. The only thing that kept him from being a bargain was his pristine teeth, which some shokudo coveted and would turn into jewelry. He wanted to bite their fingers off when they stuck them in, but he was a good boy and did what needed to be done so he could go home.
The only time he’d actually seen his page in the registry was when the butcher’s child had joined his cycling team. She had excitedly brought it in to show him, and the only thing he could focus on was how he was graded “C-“ and listed as best for slow roasts. How disgusting, he’d thought, imagining his life ending to become a tasteless stew. Komari had asked that he should tell his buyer to request her family’s services. She’s only helped with the process before, separating meats, she’d told him, but when he was inevitably purchased she wanted to be the one to pull his meat from the bones.
He wanted to vomit when she told him that, but instead just hissed at her, leaning his head back to peer at her over his cheeks. Her face was red as she stared at him, hand out and pressing fingers between his muscles, tracing each indentation to the joint.
The first time he visited her house she’d brought him to the butcher shop. No one was there, but he did see the instruments that would in all likeliness end his life. It doesn’t bother him, it’s something he’s come to accept after all. It was nice and sterile back there, with restraints and hooks along the walls. She asked if he wanted to see how it worked. He accepted, and she walked him around and brought his hands to the restraints. They were closed, but not locked, and she took a sheathed knife from the table, tracing the leather against his skin.
First it ran against his throat, and she informed him this is where he’d die. They’d flip him for an hour or so to drain the blood before the butchering process. She runs a hand under his shirt and pulls it up, running the blade’s sheath upwards, telling him this is how they’d reach his internal organs, the more delicate parts of meat. She kisses his stomach and squeezes his side with her free hand, before letting his shirt back down.
She picks up another tool and pulls the sheath off, telling him that this is how they’d pull the meat off his bones, and how she’d be extra careful not to waste a single sinew and clean him completely, and how beautiful his meat would look like before it was cooked, how lovely and red it would be. You know, she told him, it wouldn’t be too hard to make himself more appetizing and raise his grade. Midousuji pulls his hands from the restraints, telling Komari that he’d had enough.
Later that night, Komari pressed her fingers between the lines of his muscles. He knows that he felt her shudder form excitement. How gross.