In the years that would follow, many would say I sold my soul.
A corpse can survive without a soul but it needs food. I needed food. At first, it was easy to sell my body. It provided me with a meal, wine and most nights a place to stay.
Inside the warm homes, no one would question why I was there. Not even their wives. Why would they? They knew what was now needed to live another day. Many had been in the same position.
Soon, once the money was dwindling, a meal and a place to stay was the only payment you could expect. Better than starving on the streets in the harsh winter storms.
It wasn’t long before the fine wine and good meats had been diminished, but we had hope.
Hope that revolution was upon us. Hope that the killing would stop. Hope that brothers and sisters would fight no more. Hope to rise against the dictator that kept us oppressed. Hope, does not feed you. Starvation ripped through the country worse than any infection before.
The only thing that kept us alive was the cheap vodka made in basements. The same cheap vodka that was now my only payment.
The harsh alcohol clawed through my body, making me weak. A skeleton was all that remained now.
Desperate to sell any part of me just to eat, I accepted an offer from a doctor.
He took me into his warm house. Still finely decorated, the revolution had not stripped him of wealth. Walking through to the elegant dining room, he led me to a chair.
Strapping my arms and legs down, the doctor began preparing our meal.
Slice by slice he removed wafer thin, seared skin.
Slightly roasting it before placing one slice in front of me and another to face him.
I finally ate that night and found my eternal warm home.