Nights like those and sunrises like these.

My days off begin about a block from my front door. 1872 steps according to my pedometer. Today it’s cold. Colder than usual. It’s only October 2nd. I head to the waters edge, watching my breath form a cloud that looks like I’m smoking. My doctor claims she’s proud of me for this. Blah, fucking blah. I do this because I need to take advantage of being by the water.

It feels different. Something is making me question my direction. I head towards the pier instead. An extra 843 steps. Not a big deal, but I watch the time because I have to be to work at 7:45. The tide seems to hit right below the pier’s aging planks. Waves crash into the pier, which should frighten me, but me being me, I keep walking. A wave breaks and something that looks like a starfish washes onto the pier. A closer look, it’s a hand. A tiny hand that is visibly gnawed on, almost like a piece of chicken. Bad analogy, yes. But it’s my story and that’s what I see.

Long Beach PD makes it to my location in what seems like 2 minutes. I explain my route and I give them my statement.

Work is literally the last thing on my mind. So many scenarios come to mind. Who’s hand it is, how it’s just a hand, when did this happen. I’ve heard stories for years of a nuclear waste site in the center of the harbor, just before an oil island. 8, 9, 12, 2, 5. Finally off work.

Showering after work is the thing I look forward to most. Tonight it’s a bath. But first, back to the beach. My inner Nancy Drew is showing. The waters edge is packed tonight. So many faces of folks I don’t recognize. 3014 steps hit quickly. Away from the chaos I sink into the sand to smoke a joint and check some emails. Before I know it, the sun is completely gone and the sky is pitch black, a moonless night. A boat with a frequent spotlight is just close enough to make noise that’s audible from my spot, but far enough away that the light isn’t bothersome.

A glowing ray shines bright from the water. And with a swift movement, a small object is seemingly spit out from the light. Perhaps getting stoned on the beach wasn’t the brightest idea, but there was no backing down, I’m no punk bitch. I ditch my sandals, my sweater and I bury my phone in my sleeve. The water is still warm enough that it’s bareable. But just cold enough that it’s chilly at first. My heart is racing as the object seems to begin to swim in my direction. I see it first as a fish, but eventually a foot. Like it’s kicking it’s way to shore. Unattached from an ankle, a leg. Just a foot.

My mind races. My heart pounds. At this point, the weed is making my hungry. The flesh still intact, so alluring. I begin to nibble on the foot. There is no end to this. I crave more. Just then, a torso, with a lucious breast dangling, slightly smaller than my own. The rush of the salty water, the meat covered bones, I can’t stop eating.

I tread back to the shore. A crowd has formed. Lights surround me. Boats appear. The police. I kept eating.

This is how I became a cannibal. The ocean killed them, I ate them. They swam into the toxic water, and I reaped the supply. I guess I’ve become an opportunist.

There are 624 steps to my supplie’s thighs. She likes it when I bite them, breaking the skin just enough to keep me content. For now.