Each morning he asks for the melon baller. I hand it to him after dipping it into the reused isopropyl, now tea-colored brown, and sit down in front of him. I cross my legs and my bony ass pinches into the hardwood. He removes my hair, and unwinds the thin thread that covers the length of my scalp from ear to ear, before unlocking the release.
He scoops out a little bit of my brain, and tastes it.
Most of the time it is passable. Real meaty, he would say sometimes, or salty, or sweet as a lemon. I wished there was a mirror so I could see his face when he ate it, just so it would give me a warning before the boom of his voice.
It didn’t affect me much, at first. Little memories would slip from my sentences like wet forks, but I could still go to school. Only sometimes I would forget how to get home. He’d wait, and I’d hurry.
But now. Now, I can tell because it took parts of her. I can’t remember her birthday or her expression when she’s concentrating.
I asked him once if he did this to everyone and he laughed like it was an answer.