Control of Choice

Sucking.

Gasping. 

My God, selfishly inhaling all of it.

How he could just stand there, watching somewhat disapprovingly with his hip cocked and a hand lying idly on top of it was beyond my comprehension. Didn't he know I was dying tonight? Didn't he realize that this was the last thing I'd ever consume?  

It didn't take long for them to inform me that my choice had been an odd one, as if I hadn't known that from the get-go. They had even asked me to reconsider, telling me that they might not even be able to provide it in time. But, it was my choice, after all, and I enjoyed control in all situations. 

Most picked something comforting, like fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and a soda that reminded them of when their mother still cared.

So when I asked for a Fugu Puffer Fish from the awful (and quite possibly illegal) Japanese restaurant down the road from where I once dwelled, the overwhelming mass of raised eyebrows brought out a rare chuckle from deep within. 

After slapping the white plate down in front of me three days later, the guard turned to the other, both pairs of eyes lingering on me like an animal in a zoo as they conversed. The only humans in the room.

"I heard those fish can kill you when you don't cook it right," he'd said to the shorter, heavier in the middle man.

"Oh yeah?" the round one questioned, amusement intertwined with ease. They knew I was no threat to anyone. At least, they assumed. "Think he knows that?"

I did.