I got up early this morning, overcome by a fear I couldn't identify. Perhaps a dream, perhaps leftovers from last night that I hadn't managed to retrieve. I'm not prey, I whispered, looking at myself in the spoon. The spoon was cold, too truthful, and somewhat mocking.
On the street, everything was business as usual—though not for me. The eyes behind the helmets of internet motorcycle taxis, the crows masquerading as electronic billboards, even the electricity poles seemed to be sizing me up. Am I weak? Am I soft? Am I cheap today? But I'm not prey, I told you.
The world was staring at me strangely. It was not a starving gaze, but it was. wrong. It was as if I was supposed to be something that gets hunted, consumed, and then just discarded. I had discovered that being human was all about control and giving food. But today, it was as if the control had been removed, as if a refrigerator that disappeared without anyone paying heed.
I walked fast. Ran. I would not be taken by surprise by potential. I did not even trust the wind. It might have carried word of the initial bite. Whose bite? I had no idea. But I did not wish to be savored.
Then I noticed an ant looking at me. Still. Motionless. I could've sworn it was saying, "Your turn."
I was furious. At the ant. At the spoon. At the utility pole. At anything that silently regarded me as lunch. I had bones, and feelings. I could type eighty words per minute and occasionally thought in the shower. That was sufficient to qualify as a self-respecting species.
Yet, somehow, the world was hungry today. And everybody looked at me like a menu that had not been ordered yet.
I wasn't prey. I wasn't prey. I wasn't prey. So why did I taste so good?
