Chapter 1: Butter, Blood, and Broken English
Bella stood at the epicenter, a tiny general in fuzzy slippers. She poked a writhing crab claw on her plate with a chopstick. “Hey! No running away,” she giggled, her English cheerfully tangled. “You are on my team now. Team Bella’s Tummy.” Her bright, gummy smile flashed.
On the counter beside her, a colander held a pile of plump, pink-skinned shrimp. One of them twitched, its tail flexing slowly. It was a strange, jerking movement. Almost deliberate.
“Andrew, you big baby, stop being so lazy and help me eat these,” Bella called over her shoulder, not taking her eyes off the crab. “I cook, you clean! Plate, I mean. Not shrimp.” She laughed at her own joke.
From the colander, a faint, wet clicking sound emerged. Snick-snick-snick.
Bella didn’t hear it. She was too focused on the crab claw, which was now scraping against her porcelain plate with a high-pitched screee. “So feisty! I like.” She dropped the chopsticks and picked it up with her fingers. It was warmer than it should be. Almost body-warm. The shell had an unusual, soft give to it, like buffed leather instead of hard armor.
She brought it to her lips, playfully whispering, “Nom nom time for you.”
And bit down.
The crunch was catastrophic. It wasn’t the clean snap of shell. It was layered—a brittle crack, then a pulpy, wet severance, then a final, gritty grind. A coppery, salty tang flooded her mouth, far richer than crab juice. Something stringy and wrong got caught between her back teeth. She worried it loose with her tongue, sucking the flavor.
“Mmm! Extra spicy today,” she said to the empty kitchen, licking butter and a strange, slick film from her lips. Her stomach let out a loud, eager gurgle. It felt hollow, a deep pit begging to be filled.
She reached for the colander. The shrimp were pulsating. Their translucent tails curled and uncurled in slow, pained rhythm. One, slightly larger than the rest, had eyes that looked too complex, too forward-facing. It seemed to be watching her.
“You are next,” she singsonged, grabbing a handful. They were slippery, squirming against her palm. One attached to her thumb with a weak, desperate pinch. “Hey! Rude.” She peeled it off, its little legs catching on her skin like tiny, hooked threads.
She tossed them into the sizzling wok. They didn’t just cook; they convulsed. A violent, twisting dance in the hot oil, their pale pink turning to coral red in seconds. One arched its back so high it flipped out of the wok and onto the stovetop with a wet slap. It lay there, twitching, its antennae burning to black crisps.
“Silly shrimp! Trying to fly?” Bella scooped it up with a metal spatula and slapped it back into the oil. It stopped moving.
She heaped the steaming shrimp onto her plate next to the mangled crab. Picking one up by the tail, she dangled it over her open mouth. “Airplane coming in for landing!” She lowered it slowly, teasing herself. The shrimp’s body was curved, almost in a fetal position. The veins along its back were pronounced, dark, and oddly branching.
She popped it whole into her mouth.
The texture was a revelation. The initial pop of the crispy-fried tail gave way to a dense, muscular chew. It was intensely savory, with a hint of something sweet and metabolic, like organ meat. She closed her eyes, chewing slowly, savoring the way it filled her cheek. She felt a full-body shiver of pleasure as she swallowed, a heavy, satisfying lump traveling down her throat.
Her belly gave another loud, liquid groan. It felt stretched and eager, a live thing itself.
Another shrimp tried to make a break for it, scuttling sideways off the plate. She caught it mid-desperation, her fingers closing around its middle. It thrashed, its tail whipping her knuckles. “You are the feistiest one! I save you for last, okay? A prize.”
She ate the others methodically, joyfully. Some she bit in half, watching the soft, inner flesh steam in the cool air. Others she sucked from their shells, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. All the while, the lone escapee quivered in her grip.
Finally, she held it up. It had gone limp, resigned. Its long antennae drooped. “Prize time.”
She didn’t use her teeth this time. She placed the whole shrimp on her tongue, feeling its segmented body, still faintly warm, rest there. She closed her mouth and pressed it to the roof with her tongue until she heard a faint pop. Then she began to chew.
It was softer than the others. Almost creamy. And the flavor… it was familiar. It tasted like a memory of laughter and cheap beer. It tasted like her friend Andrew, who loved shrimp fried rice and always picked out the peas.
A final, harder crunch between her molars snapped her from the thought. Must have been the vein. She swallowed.
A deep, profound fullness settled in her core. It was a pressure, a warm, shifting weight. She looked down at her own stomach, nestled under her thin t-shirt. It was distended, a firm, rounded dome.
With a happy, satiated sigh, Bella hooked her thumbs under the hem of her shirt and rolled it up, exposing the smooth, tight skin of her belly. It was visibly full, straining slightly. She placed both hands on it, patting the firm curve.
“Good job, Team Tummy,” she whispered.
Beneath her palms, something moved.
A slow, sluggish roll, deep inside. Then a hard, sharp poke. Then another. A rhythmic pulsing, not like digestion, but like a frantic, final knocking from within a full sack.
She blinked, looking down. Her stomach churned audibly, a wet, sloshing sound. She watched, fascinated, as a small, pointed bulge pressed against her skin from the inside, tenting it out for a second before sliding away. Then another. A desperate, scrambling pattern.
She burped, a rich, seafood-laden gasp. And smiled, blissfully unaware, as the trapped movements beneath her skin grew weaker, and then, finally, stopped.
She patted her belly one more time, feeling the warm, satisfied weight of a meal well eaten.
---
The kitchen was too quiet. The hum of the fridge had stopped its usual protest. The woks had cooled. Even the neon glow of the takeout signs outside seemed dimmer, as if the world had paused to hold its breath.
Bella tilted her head, listening. The silence was thick, almost sticky, like the air after a summer storm. She glanced at the colander again. Empty. The shrimp were gone. All of them. Even the one that had tried to escape.
She shrugged. "Maybe I ate more than I thought."
Her stomach gave a deep, satisfied gurgle in response.
She patted her belly one more time, feeling the warm, satisfied weight of a meal well eaten.
---
The kitchen was too quiet. The hum of the fridge had stopped its usual protest. The woks had cooled. Even the neon glow of the takeout signs outside seemed dimmer, as if the world had paused to hold its breath.
Bella tilted her head, listening. The silence was thick, almost sticky, like the air after a summer storm. She glanced at the colander again. Empty. The shrimp were gone. All of them. Even the one that had tried to escape.
She shrugged. "Maybe I ate more than I thought."
Her stomach gave a deep, satisfied gurgle in response.