Dead Plate Oneshots Don’t Wither Away

Wasn’t able to update cuz I’m currently freezing to death on a vacation in the mountains.

The apartment was suffocatingly quiet, save for the faint rustle of wind against the cracked windows. The dim light that managed to seep through the dirt-streaked glass was barely enough to chase away the gloom that seemed to cling to every corner. Vincent stood in the doorway, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. His dark clothes, torn and smeared with dirt, hung off him, and his hands trembled at his sides.

At his feet, he dragged a body.

Rody, who had been sitting on the makeshift mattress in the far corner, looked up. His green eyes, dull and sunken from weeks-months-of hunger, widened in shock. His chest tightened as he saw what Vincent had brought in.

“Vincent… what did you do?” Rody’s voice was barely audible, as if he were afraid to even speak the words.

Vincent didn’t respond right away. His pale face was a mask of fear, panic flickering in his dark eyes as he stared at the motionless figure on the ground. The room felt like it was closing in on him, the air too thin, too cold. He could barely bring himself to look at Rody. Could barely bring himself to acknowledge what he had done.

“I had no choice.” The words left Vincent’s mouth in a whisper, a weak, trembling attempt at justification. His fingers twitched as he wiped his hands on his pants, as though he could erase the feel of the body’s cold skin. “There’s no food, Rody. You’re starving. We’re starving.”

Rody’s gaze fell to the body again-a man, middle-aged, dressed in ragged clothes like the ones they wore. His face was bruised, and blood matted his hair. It was clear this man had been alive not long ago.

The realization hit Rody like a punch to the gut. His stomach churned, the bile rising in his throat as the full weight of what Vincent had done settled in. He clutched at the thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his entire body trembling, whether from hunger or horror, he couldn’t tell.

“You killed him…” Rody’s voice cracked, his hands curling into the fabric of the blanket as he stared at the body. “Vincent, you-“

“I *had* to!” Vincent’s voice was sharp, desperate. His wide eyes darted toward Rody, pleading. He stepped forward, but stopped short when he saw the look on Rody’s face. The horror. The disbelief. “You were wasting away, Rody. You can’t survive like this. We can’t. I didn’t-” Vincent’s voice broke. “I didn’t want to do it, but there’s nothing else. No one is coming to help us.”

Rody wanted to argue, wanted to scream at him, tell him that this was wrong, that this wasn’t the answer. But he couldn’t. He had no energy for it. The hunger gnawed at him constantly, had reduced him to a shadow of who he used to be. Every night, he lay awake, stomach cramping, body trembling, listening to Vincent pace the apartment, muttering to himself, searching for a solution.

And now this.

“I know it’s horrible,” Vincent continued, his voice quieter now, shaking. He looked down at his hands, blood smeared across his fingers. His expression twisted into something like disgust, but whether it was for himself or the situation, Rody didn’t know. “I hate it. I hate that it’s come to this, but…”

Vincent’s eyes flickered to Rody, and Rody felt his breath catch in his throat. There was something raw, desperate in Vincent’s gaze-a kind of fear that mirrored Rody’s own, but deeper, darker.

“I can’t lose you.” The words were barely a whisper, but they cut through the silence like a blade. “I’ll do anything to keep you alive. Anything.”

Rody looked away, bile rising in his throat. His body ached, his mind screamed at him to run, to get away from this horror, but there was nowhere to go. The world outside was worse. They had heard stories-people disappearing, desperate souls turning on each other. The powerful elites hoarded what was left, leaving everyone else to rot.

“I don’t…” Rody’s voice trailed off. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to process the situation. The hunger was unbearable, a constant, gnawing pain, but the thought of eating what Vincent had brought home…

Vincent knelt beside the body, his hands shaking as he began to pull the man’s tattered jacket off. He moved quickly, like he didn’t want to give himself time to think about what he was doing. “I’ll… I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to look. Just… just try, Rody. Please. You need to eat.”

Rody turned his head, unable to watch as Vincent worked, the sound of his knife slicing through fabric and flesh making him sick. His throat tightened, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He wanted to protest, to stop Vincent, but the smell of blood and meat-real meat-filled the room, mingling with the cold air, and his stomach twisted with something else. Hunger.

He hated himself for it.

Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the sound of Vincent’s blade cutting through skin and muscle. Rody pressed his hands over his ears, trying to drown out the wet, sickening noises, but they filled his head, crawled under his skin.

Finally, Vincent stood, his hands slick with blood, holding a small, hastily cut portion of meat. He looked at Rody, his eyes wide, desperate. “I’ll cook it. You’ll feel better after. You’ll have your strength back.”

Rody didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His stomach churned violently, bile burning in his throat, but he didn’t stop Vincent. He didn’t know if he could.

Vincent moved to the stove-a rickety thing they had scavenged from a nearby abandoned building-and lit it. The faint, flickering flame cast a sickly glow across the room. The sizzle of the meat in the pan filled the silence, and the smell hit Rody like a wave. His stomach growled despite the nausea rolling through him.

Vincent watched the meat, his hands shaking as he turned it over in the pan. He wasn’t a butcher. He wasn’t prepared for this. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he had to try. For Rody. He had to keep Rody alive.

When the meat was cooked, Vincent turned to Rody, holding out the plate with trembling hands. “Here. Eat.”

Rody stared at the plate, bile rising in his throat again. His mind screamed at him not to take it, not to let this happen. But his hands moved on their own, weak and shaking as they reached for the plate. He felt Vincent’s eyes on him, watching, waiting, hope and fear tangled together in his expression.

The fork felt heavy in Rody’s hand as he lifted it, cutting into the meat. The moment the first bite touched his tongue, he gagged, his body recoiling instinctively. But he forced himself to chew, to swallow. The taste was metallic, bitter, the texture wrong, but it was food.

It was survival.

Vincent watched him, his eyes wide, desperate for some kind of reassurance, some sign that this had been the right choice.

Rody didn’t give him one. He ate in silence, choking down each bite, his throat tight, his chest aching. The hunger gnawed at him, demanded more, but every mouthful felt like a betrayal, a horror he couldn’t escape. He was eating another human.

When he finally set the plate down, his hands trembling, he looked up at Vincent. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick, heavy with the weight of what they had done, what they had become.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent whispered, his voice broken, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I’m so sorry, Rody.”

Rody didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

The days after that first meal blurred together.

Rody barely left the apartment anymore. His mind was trapped in a haze he couldn’t escape. The memory of that first night haunted him—the way the blood had pooled on the floor, the way Vincent’s hands, shaking but determined, had cut through flesh like it was nothing. He hated how that meat, that awful, vile thing, had filled his stomach and quieted the gnawing hunger inside. But the disgust was still there, clinging to his thoughts, a weight that never left.

He and Vincent hardly spoke now. Each word felt strained, the tension in the apartment unbearable. Rody would sit by the window, staring at the city’s crumbling remains, its streets a graveyard of broken lives. The silence between them was suffocating, filled with the ghosts of things neither wanted to acknowledge.

And then, every night, Vincent would leave. He would disappear into the darkness of the city, and Rody knew what he was doing out there. Knew, but never wanted to ask.

The bodies kept coming. Each one faceless, nameless, just another unfortunate soul pulled from the ruins. Some were already dead when Vincent dragged them through the door, others still clinging to life, barely breathing. Rody never asked where they came from. He didn’t need to.

Vincent would set to work immediately, silent as always. He had become disturbingly efficient. He’d clean the corpses with a practiced precision, then move to the stove with the same eerie calm. The smell of burning flesh would fill the apartment, and Rody would have to fight the bile that rose in his throat. It didn’t matter how many times it happened; each meal felt like another piece of his soul being stripped away.

But he ate. He had to. The hunger gnawed at him, more vicious than the guilt, more brutal than the nightmares that plagued his sleep.

They never talked about what they were doing. There was no point. It was survival—ugly, brutal survival. That’s what Vincent would say. Every time Rody flinched or hesitated, Vincent would remind him, in that soft, pleading voice, that they had no choice. That this was the only way.

Yet with each passing day, Rody felt something cracking inside him.

It was the day Vincent brought *her* home that everything changed.

Rody had been staring out the window again when he heard the door open. His muscles tensed, expecting the familiar thud of another body hitting the floor. But this time, something was different. The air felt colder, sharper, filled with a dread he couldn’t place.

He turned, slowly, and froze when he saw her.

Vincent stood in the doorway, his hands wrapped around the shoulders of a woman, dragging her across the threshold. Her clothes were torn, bloodstained, but her face—Rody’s heart stopped.

Manon. The woman he loved more than his own life.

His mind recoiled in horror. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t be here. Not like this. His throat tightened, and he stumbled back, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Vincent,” he choked out, barely able to find his voice. “What have you done?”

Vincent looked at him, eyes wide and confused. His brow furrowed, as if he didn’t understand what was happening. “What do you mean?” he asked softly, his voice cracking. “I found her… She was… She was dying, so I brought her here.”

Rody’s mind was spinning, every thought a tangled mess of disbelief and anger. He staggered forward, his hands trembling as he knelt beside her. She was barely conscious, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths.

“*Manon,*” he whispered, his voice breaking as he spoke her name.

Vincent stood frozen, watching Rody with a kind of helpless confusion. “Is she someone you knew? I’m sorry, I didn’t know who she was,” he muttered, his voice almost desperate. “I just—she was there. I thought…”

Rody’s stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. He stood, fists clenched at his sides. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore, Vincent,” he said, his voice shaking. “Not like this. Not when it’s—*her*.”

Vincent’s eyes darted between Rody and the woman on the floor, panic flashing across his face. “Rody, please,” he whispered, stepping forward. “You don’t have to… we can figure something else out. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t.”

But Rody shook his head, stepping back. “I’m done,” he whispered. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t eat them anymore. Not when they’re…” His voice broke, and he turned away, tears blurring his vision.

Vincent’s face fell, his hands trembling at his sides. For a moment, he looked lost, his mind struggling to process what was happening. But then, something shifted in his eyes. Something dark, desperate.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to eat them anymore.”

Rody blinked, stunned by the sudden change. Relief washed over him, but it was fleeting. There was something in Vincent’s voice that made his skin crawl, something cold and hollow.

The days after that were a blur of silence and hunger. Vincent no longer brought home bodies, but the tension between them grew, thick and suffocating. Rody’s stomach growled constantly, the hunger gnawing at him with a vengeance, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for food. Not after what he’d said.

Vincent had changed too. He was quieter, more withdrawn. His eyes lingered on Rody with a strange, haunted intensity, as if he was watching him wither away before his eyes. Rody didn’t understand it at first, didn’t understand the look of guilt and desperation that clung to Vincent’s every movement.

Until the night Vincent came home with a sharp butchers knife.

Rody was sitting at the table, staring blankly at the wall, when Vincent sat down across from him. His clothes were torn, his face pale and gaunt, but there was no body this time. No stranger dragged through the door, no bloodstains on the floor.

Just Vincent. And the knife.

Rody’s heart skipped a beat, a cold sense of dread creeping up his spine. “Vincent?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “What are you doing?”

Vincent didn’t answer. His hands trembled as he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his bare arm. Without looking at Rody, he raised the knife and pressed it against his own skin.

“*Stop,*” Rody gasped, standing up so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. “What the hell are you doing?”

But Vincent didn’t stop. His hand shook as he dragged the blade across his arm, cutting deep enough to make Rody’s stomach churn. Blood welled up, dark and thick, spilling down Vincent’s wrist and onto the table.

Rody lunged forward, grabbing for the knife, but Vincent pulled away, shaking his head. “You said you didn’t want to eat them anymore,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “So you won’t.”

Rody stared at him, his heart pounding in his chest. He could barely process what was happening, could barely believe what he was seeing. “Vincent, *no.*”

But Vincent was already moving, already cutting a small piece of flesh from his arm, his face twisted in pain. He placed it on the table between them, his eyes hollow and exhausted. “You don’t have to starve, Rody,” he whispered. “I can’t… I can’t watch you waste away.”

Rody’s breath hitched, bile rising in his throat as he stared down at the bloody piece of flesh. He felt sick—sicker than he ever had before. His vision swam, and the room seemed to tilt around him.

“I’ll cook it,” Vincent said softly, standing up, the blood still dripping from his arm. “You won’t even notice the difference.”

Rody stumbled back, his heart hammering in his chest. “Vincent, please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Vincent interrupted, his voice strained. “I *have* to, Rody. You won’t eat anything else. You’ll die.”

Rody watched in horror as Vincent moved toward the stove, his movements slow and methodical. The sound of the meat sizzling filled the air, and Rody’s stomach twisted violently.

This wasn’t survival anymore. This was madness.

When Vincent finally placed the plate in front of him, Rody could barely look at it. The smell of cooked flesh filled the small apartment, and his hands shook as he gripped the edge of the table, his mind reeling. He felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of what was happening.

“Please, Rody,” Vincent whispered, sitting down across from him, his face pale and drawn. “Just eat. Please.”

Rody stared at the plate, bile rising in his throat, and realized that somewhere, deep down, he had already lost Vincent.

Maybe he also lost himself the moment he took the first bite from the meal placed in front of him.

It tasted…….good……too good.