It was a fine calm day to prepare my last meal. It was peaceful, a time where most families would be preparing their roast dinners at a time of festivity. I had the place to myself.
The delicate leaves on the nearby row of silver birches fluttered in the the light breeze, a natural calming wind chime for the living.
Some say that eating in the open air unleashes the taste buds, that the fresh air invigorates the tongue itself. Others say that it makes our ancestral mind recall the eating of flesh outside in the open, that the brain releases neurochemicals of pleasure because of this ancient recollection.
I could not care less. Eating in the open was delicious, pure and simple.
I had prepared the table, cleaned it carefully and laden the surface with the finest embroidered cloth I could buy. The cutlery was the best silver I could lay my hands on, the table set for two.
The main course, venison slow cooked with red wine jus, was waiting speared on a silver tray. It was perfectly cut, thin slices of pure lean meat.
I was surrounded by good friends, long since dead and remembered only in stone.
With the first bite of the meat the juices ran down the side my mouth, tinged red. I closed my eyes and slowly ate a soft delicious slice of a beautiful creature.
The sun was shining and my heart was howling. I had come to eat my dignity.