I’m a homemaker, and recently, an unsettling visitor came to my home. He was an elderly man with gray hair who claimed to have abducted my daughter. Threateningly, he insisted that involving the police wouldn’t help, as he wouldn’t disclose her location, leaving her missing indefinitely. Feeling bewildered, he surprisingly revealed that all he wanted was for my husband and me to eat the meal he had prepared. In exchange for doing so, he promised to disclose our daughter’s whereabouts. The reason behind his unusual request remained unclear to me at first, but eventually I realized I had a clue to this.
My husband held a prestigious position as a food critic. Renowned for his exceptional sensibility, extraordinary sense of taste, and sharp-witted comments, he wielded significant influence in the food industry. His critiques were so powerful that some restaurants faced closure due to his criticisms, earning him resentment from various quarters. I couldn’t help but wonder if the kidnapper might be someone harboring such resentment.
The kidnapper began sharing his life story as he prepared the meal. He had been managing a small restaurant, and after nine years of financial hardship, the business finally began to prosper. However, everything took a tragic turn when his daughter was killed. The perpetrator was a 13-year-old boy who was a regular visitor to his restaurant. He raped and murdered her. Her body bore 97 stab wounds. During the police interrogation, it was revealed that the juvenile got sexually aroused by murder. It was hedonistic killing.
The incident left both him and his wife grappling with severe depression, leading to the closure of their restaurant. For a year, they lived as soulless husks. Eventually, they made the decision to leave the cursed land and started a new restaurant in a different location. Running the new establishment proved challenging, and they continued to face difficulties. Their business was still struggling at that time.
The meal was finally ready. He served it to me and insisted that I partake. Unfortunately, the taste was far from satisfactory; it lacked richness and depth of flavor. The meat, in particular, was dry and emitted an unpleasant odor. These characteristics made it evident to me that this person was not a skilled chef. I was certain my husband would have critiqued him harshly without mercy.
At that moment, the front door swung open, and my husband returned. He shouted at the kidnapper, demanding to know who he was. The kidnapper revealed that he had abducted my husband’s daughter and asserted that knowing his identity was unnecessary. He insisted that my husband had to consume the prepared meal to secure her release. My husband, visibly angered, stared at him and suggested that he must be one of the low-level chefs he often criticized. Under his breath, my husband muttered that this farce needed to end quickly, grabbed a spoon, and brought a piece of the meat to his mouth. He took one chew.
Merely taking that bite proved enough to trigger his mental breakdown. He lost control of his mind, wailing and screaming. A fierce roar escaped him as he lunged at the kidnapper, mounting him and delivering relentless punches to his teeth. He screamed, expressing his fury at the kidnapper for taking her life. The situation surpassed my comprehension, leaving me standing there, helplessly witnessing his actions.
The kidnapper grunted, mentioning that the kidnapper’s daughter had also been consumed by the guy, emphasizing that my husband shouldn’t have forgotten that. I couldn’t grasp the meaning behind “the guy.” The onslaught of punches continued for an extended period, and eventually, the kidnapper ceased to move.
The daughter’s whereabouts were discovered in a memo found in the kidnapper’s pocket. Tragically, her buttocks had been partly gouged. Based on her account, he had been sobbing and apologizing to her while committing this heinous act. Through a DNA test conducted by the police, we confirmed that the meat in the meal indeed belonged to our daughter’s body. It appeared the kidnapper had ingested a slow-acting poison beforehand and had already passed away when the police arrived.
Remarkably, my husband’s charge of assault was somehow dropped. Unfortunately, our daughter’s leg was permanently affected due to the injury, requiring crutches for support while walking. Today, my husband, daughter, and I stroll along the greenways in a park, basking in the warm sunlight as part of her rehabilitation. Though the memory of this horrific incident may never fade, we are committed to doing our best to return to a semblance of the way things were.
However, there’s something that lingers in my thoughts. I’m hesitant to ask my husband this question; I feel like a coward. The fear of uncovering the truth is overwhelming. How could he discern, with just one bite, that it was our daughter’s meat?