Flask ahem Flash Fiction Friday challenge: seven sins

I'm just starting out, any feedback is much appreciated. rated teen

Level II: Gluttony

You wake up along the side of a dusty highway hungry and confused.  You remember a loud squealing, and pain, and almost nothing else. The landscape is deserted save for one building. A mid-sized diner with the words “hell’s kitchen buffet” blinking on and off in happy little red letters. Feeling your gut rumble you walk across the street and into the dinner, a petite red woman with small horns on her forehead says in cheery voice “Welcome to Hell. Table for one?” You stare at her, not sure what to do, but she’s nonplussed, she simply tells you to follow, and brings you to mid-size booth toward the wall of the restaurant.  “What would you like to drink, we have coke products, pepsi, coffee, tea?” you mumble that you’ll take a diet coke, she gives you a little smile, tells you she’ll have it right away, and invites you to start eating.

You walk up to the buffet area, they have tables lined out with trays that seem to be full of every food imaginable. America , Chinese, Italian, Mexican, Indian, Thai  Your stomach rumbles again and you start to salivate. You start filling your plate with all you can, you want to try some of everything. You take back two plates to your table, your diet coke is waiting and you start to eat.

Everything is amazing. Not just amazing in fact, it’s the best food you’ve ever had. The steak from the hibachi is thick and just the perfect level of rare, better than a steak house. The mac and cheese reminds you of home and your mother, the way she used to make it, but somehow, better.  The pad thai reminds you of that perfect date with the girl from your lit class in your sophomore year of college, the one that ended back home. You can almost taste them, you can taste the memories.

You get up for a second helping. With food this good why would you stop at one or two plates and there’s still so much more to try. Each new thing you try is perfect. Heavenly.

You start to feel uncomfortable now, but what’s just one more plate? You fill this one to and by the end of it it’s starting to hurt but it’s just so good you can’t stop. You want more, you need more. So you get up and fill your plate again. And again. And again. And again.

It hurts so badly now. You try not to go again, to resist. But the food is so good, and the memories, and somehow when the food is in your mouth it doesn’t seem  to hurt so bad at least until you swallow again, so you shove more food in your mouth, to make the pain go away again, but each time you swallow the pain get worse and worse it feels as though you’re going to tear in half. But as the pain gets worse you want it to stop even more.

You puke. You puke all over the table in front of you, all over your plate, all over your food and drink. But it’s too late now; you have to keep eating that amazing food. So you keep eating, shoving it into your mouth, chewing, swallowing, puke and all. You keep going and going, as your body fights back, puking it up, and you keep shoving it all back in, each piece of chicken like a salmon swimming upstream.

How long does it go on like that? Weeks? Months?

You’ve soiled yourself beyond measure, but the staff doesn’t seem to mind, in fact they’ve given you a new seat, right in the buffet area. It’s getting harder to move, so you sit directly by the trays now, shoving noodles into your fat filthy face with your bare hands. You can no longer grip a fork with your fat piggy fingers. But the staff still smiles at you as they refill the trays. Those smiles have stopped being friendly long ago, but I doubt that by now you would even notice.

Finally you stop. You can eat no more. Literally you a physically incapable of the movement required to shove more food in your face, you just sit there helpless, as the demon chefs come out and wheel you back into the kitchen.

You scream as they peel back your skin and start tearing the fat and flesh off your body.  As the butchers flay you, you watch them take your fat and start melting it down.  “Cooking oil” the chef laughs in your ear, as shoves the knife back into you and tears away another piece. You scream again, keep screaming as they tear away, scream yourself into unconsciousness, it sounds like a pig squealing.

All goes dark.

You wake up along the side of a dusty highway hungry and confused.  You remember a loud squealing, and pain, and almost nothing else. The landscape is deserted save for one building. A mid-sized diner with the words “Hell’s kitchen buffet” blinking on and off in happy little red letters. Feeling your gut rumble you walk across the street and into the dinner, a petite red woman with small horns on her forehead says in cheery voice “Welcome to Hell. Table for one?”