Ginger stood in the meat aisle of the store. The fluorescent lights were sickly white, unnatural, and she stared at the processed meat in sealed containers, the transparent plastic clinging to goosepimply chicken flesh and links of sausages in spirals. It made her feel nauseous. Last night, she’d dreamed about eating something again. Something that was still alive, still squirming. All she could remember was a high-pitched yelping sound, and the warm blood, and the bone-deep, aching, hunger and need.
She baulked a little, but hid it well with a swallow. “Pick up dinner for tonight, mom said,” she murmured to herself, moodily. “It won’t be totally freaking disgusting.” She’d never felt this way about meat before. She’d never given a shit before. But right then? She totally sympathised with the vegan hippies who had badges like meat is murder. All because of those dumb dreams.
