1

On the massive Japanese cypress wooden table covered in a beautifully and masterfully hand-embroidered red and gold satin cloth stretched a seemingly endless river of overflowing fine China dishes, steaming-hot metal pots and pans and small porcelain glasses filled to the brim with sake. In the white dishes adorned with blue flowers, dragons and other intricate designs lay a mix of mouth-watering nourishment. Fishes of varying sizes were laying on flat plates as if they were just resting, their eyes piercing the onlookers' souls, pleading but to no avail: it was already too late. To keep them company, daikon radishes, diced, sliced, boiled, steaming rice in round half balls, pickles, sweet potatoes, yams. Not to mention the sushi: impeccable, uniform cubes of maki, none bigger than the other, and nigiri with any type of meat one could think of, from salmon all the way to squid and eel, arranged in two long parallel lines.

Soon enough, little plates shaped like fish began filling up with soy sauce, wasabi was passed around and pickled ginger was being picked up by bamboo chopsticks from its place bordering the sushi line. Raw seaweed of a striking green with sesame seeds sprinkled all over, a green night sky in which one could get lost, was scattered inside the sushi aisle.

The rest of the dishes were randomly placed on the table such that people could have easy access to all the different delicacies from their respective positions at the table. Round, wooden bowls scattered around were filled with clams bathing in sake and scallion soup seasoned with peppers and ginger. Pots of steaming, brown miso soup were already being dug into with great thirst. Four red lobsters were laying limply on blindingly golden platters in the corners of the table. Everyone seemed to shy away from them, almost as if they were afraid. At least for now. Only after they filled their guts with the rest of the dishes, would they start minutiously dissecting the poor crustaceans.

And in the centre of the table, the sushi lines curved to accommodate the immense, perfectly round platter carrying the head of a monstruous tuna, circled by smaller salmon heads and quarters of lemons. Its eyes were of a striking emptiness, just like the ones staring at it.

A small boy of about 11 watched shyly from near the entrance as the important people dug straight into the delicious food like starved, decadent wolves. The old man on his right, his father, had promised him a feast for his birthday, already long past. Once the men in the deep purple kimonos finally satisfied themselves, the hungry mob watching their every movement roared excitedly. The people stood up, bowed ceremoniously and formed a neat line around the table, slowly exiting the room. After the last one left the comfort and safety of the dining establishment, the boy was shoved forward and, in a whirlwind of dirty rags, hair and flesh, he grabbed food senselessly. An avalanche of sensations, tastes and smells, flooded the ecstatic youngster.

2

The boy was barely breathing, feeling as if his stomach lining would breach and overflow at any moment, spewing in his abdominal cavity. After all, he ate more in one sitting than he'd ever eaten in his entire, short, life. But who could blame him, the feast was unlike any the townspeople had heard of: a true, impressive and untamed display of gluttony and greed, power and wealth. Who would not indulge in such a banquet?

Almost rolling on the empty street like a ball, he stumbled back to the ruining hut he called home, slightly drunk off the alcoholic vapour in the room of intoxicated rich people and obscenely filthy peasants. He was alone on the street as his father left for work. An incredible thirst possessed the boy halfway down the road and he rushed, as fast as he could possibly move with a belly full of fish and rice and vegetables he had never even heard the name of. He slammed the sliding door with the might of a person twice his size, completely knocking off one of the planks that was hanging by a loose and rusty nail. His father will not be pleased, but the thought did not even as much as cross his mind. The bamboo and straw box was much like a barn: one elongated room split in two, a sleeping room at the back and a multipurpose room at the front. Here, in a fairly large, chipped ceramic jug the boy found some stale water and downed it in one go.

Feeling even fuller than before and surprised that his stomach did not burst like a swollen blister, the young boy immediately started feeling nauseous so he did the only thing he could think of: sleep. The mat covering the floor felt harder than ever before but he still managed to doze off almost instantly.

3

It must have been around 2 or 3 in the night when the boy woke up to strange gurgling and rumbling. His insides were being kneaded like fresh dough. A storm was raging inside, thundering, roaring and growling like a furious, rabid beast. There was, indeed, a beast in his stomach. He felt it bang against the fleshy walls of his abdomen like a violent, unborn child. It was crying to be let out. Afraid of staining the old mats and rugs, he rushed outside. The nausea prevented him from making it to the outhouse at the back of the garden but instead, he emptied his guts a few steps from the back wall of the hut.

The full moon was shining high above, like a lighthouse up in the sky. The first wave of vomit chilled him, making him spasm violently. A big lump travelled back up, a bit smooth, a bit bony. It raked his throat, finally landing on the cold, grassless dirt. The nausea did not pass in the slightest. Contrary, it got worse when the poor, sick child saw what he just puked out: a skeletal fish, perhaps a small yellowtail, rotting in the few fleshy spots of the head and tail, surprisingly whole as its hundreds of bones, big and small, were all in their place. Disoriented and in pain, it flapped around frantically in the almost clear but still muddy red-ish liquid that came with it. He jumped to his feet at the horrific sight of the cursed animal, if one could even call it that, letting out a shrill, blood-freezing screech which made his knees weak enough to cave in, causing him to fall to the ground and immediately vomit again, clutching the dry dirt in his small, fragile hands. Yet another accursed creature left his stomach, joining the first in the now enlarged puddle. He could not stop emptying his stomach even after the second fish left his body. Both abominations flapped around in the mud erratically, splashing his bare legs with the liquidy remains of his fabulous dinner. The boy cried and cried his eyes out as more and more came out of him, uncontrollably, instinctually. His body was no longer his, it was moving of its own accord. His entire upper digestive tract was being burnt, as if all the acid in his stomach was travelling upwards, reaching places it was never supposed to.

The emotional and physical stress made him faint, falling limply to the scorched dirt, just missing the regurgitated muddy puddle filled with pieces of undigested and unchewed rice, vegetables and fish, a slushie of foods ingested by an obviously deprived, hungry person. Later, he was forced to awake due to the desert formed in his mouth. The boy slowly made his way to the well on the eastern side of the backyard. Although he could not tell how much time had passed since he woke up, he knew it hasn't been long. Not that it mattered much to him, anyway. All he felt right then was the overpowering need to quench his thirst. After drinking at least two buckets of freezing cold aquifer water, he stumbled, half sleep-walking, half unconscious, back inside the wooden hut where he collapsed on his mat, falling into a deep death-like slumber, still bearing the awful stains on his legs.

4

Woken up by the scorching rays of noon sun, he hoisted himself up and the world started spinning around him as he tried to stand up to go to the well. He was unimaginably thirsty once again. Barely breathing, his lips were swollen and cracked as if they hadn't been graced by a single droplet of water in ages. Stumbling, still in a sleep-haze, to the well, he gulped an uncountable amount of water. In his rush, he spilt some on himself, cooling down his heated body. At last, he could rest.

Throughout the wasting day he drank more water than he even realised. The only witness, and victim, was the rapidly depleting water supply in the well. Drought and unquenchable thirst do not go well together. He couldn't care less, he was happy he was not feeling hungry for the very first time in his life. Miraculously, he was still feeling the comfort of the healthy meal he ate last night.

Today passed, and so did tomorrow, and the day after that as well. He kept drinking water and not eating anything, granted there was nothing for him to eat anyway. He was getting fuller as the time slowly dragged by. His father would still be gone for a few days, he knew, but he didn't need the food he would bring with him. The paradoxical event was not the youngster's concern. He was simply thrilled that he did not have to feel hunger ever again, as if the feast of the previous days magically removed his ability to lack nourishment. The only thing he could not stop needing was water.

Occasionally, he would feel a weird sensation in his stomach, as if there were creatures moving around and tying his insides in knots. At first he brushed it off. Then, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Soon enough the frequency increased to the point of discomfort. The boy's stomach started expanding, it started weighing him down like a sack of rocks, they squirm, writhe, wiggle, struggle, pushing the soft, mucous membrane to its limit. It became increasingly clear to him that they exist and want to get out due to the limited available living space.

5

He rushed to the outhouse, throwing himself to his knees before the fetid abyss opening in the bamboo panel below. Panicked and confused, with a realisation dawning on him but still consciously being pushed away, he started frantically shoving his fingers down his throat. Regardless of how many times he tickled his uvula or how deep he pushed his short, stubby index and middle fingers, the creatures would not budge. The sudden, overpowering fright covered his mind in a velvety curtain, forcing him to repeat the action even more violently. This cause one slimy, elongated, agitated creature to get stuck at the epiglottis, choking the poor boy in its attempt to escape. This startled the youngster, and his vision soon darkened as his body was trying to push the obstacle back down to where it came from.

Regaining his sight and ability to breathe, he started weeping silently, at first, and then burst in an agony-filled crying fit. Waling, he started hitting the floor of the outhouse with his clenched fists. Desperate and anguished, he pulled his short hair, almost removing it from its roots. After kicking the ground and jumping up and down, he finally collapsed, drained of all strength and utterly defeated, his tears dried bitterly on his frowning face.

The only thing left to be done was walk to the front room of the hut and grab the knife he was specifically told not to touch. On his way back, the pain caused by the unnerved, frenzied creatures banging their heads and tails on the sheet-thin stomach lining became unbearable. Hardly making it back to the outhouse, he slid down on the rickety walls, panting heavily. His hands were shaking and he was sweating profusely. One deep breath and a swift, convinced but pained movement and a slosh reverberated in the deafening silence of the late evening. A few droplets of sweat dripped loudly on the floor. He let out a small, almost inaudible yelp. The blade was cold against the heat of the flesh and his weak, dirty fingers gripped its handles with all their remaining strength, driving it further to the left in a jagged line. He removed the knife with a screeching, broken and guttural noise. Like a waterfall, a dozen, fairly young yellowtails fell out of the bloody opening, dropping to the wooden panel. They flapped around freely in the ruby puddle, splashing the boy's rags and walls. Through the enlarged fresh cut, the boy's intestines rolled out like Crêpe paper at a surprise party. He leaned back into the bamboo wall behind him and watched the slimy, pinkish mass of flesh twitch slightly when a fish bumped into it. His little hand softened, releasing its deathly grip of the blade's handle. The cold steel dressed in red hit the ground with a muffled clank.

6

His job was highly demanding for his age and history of back problems, but he did it for the small amount of food he was promised. The old man realised his mistake too late, or maybe he was not even fully aware of it. Nevertheless, when he came back the boy was nowhere to be found, but as soon as he stepped in the backyard he involuntarily knew what had happened. The stench hit him first. Then came that awful nausea. But he kept going, and once he opened the crumbling door a tear rolled down his cheek. His poor boy was sleeping so soundly while dozens of flies buzzed around him and his loose pile of mangled intestines. His eyes were empty and from his mouth and nose a dark liquid leaked. His hands and torso were brown and purple and he seem bloated. But he was sleeping so soundly.

The old man would never forgive himself, but he too needed to eat, maybe more than the boy. He needed the energy for work, to bring back food. How would he pick rice all day without those scraps of fish and rice he found thrown away at the back of the royal dining hall? And then, if he came back empty handed like a cowering dog with its tail between its legs, the boy would cry and cry and he'd have to beg again.

But the old man would never forgive himself.