vanishing persons

I.
he leads her on a walk, early morning, through the fog and stops at a stream. she is looking fondly into his mogoloid-eyes. he senses her undying devotion and wonders what is that makes animals so seemingly human. it's uncanny, he thinks, though he doesn't know the word for it. she has no name. he calls her betsy. betsy the cow, like in a book.
their relationship is strictly platonic, let's establish that right off the bat. no funny business about it.
she's not eating today. maybe she knows. her soul is mostly hypothetical. a projection. this is how he'll remember her. each one, he remembers differently. but it always feels the same.
later, he is sitting at the table, betsy reconfigured on his plate. her memory is staring straight back at him, right in the eyes. her memory and her meat. uncle is blood-stained. he picks up the machete.
and this is how i did it, he says.
thwack. he makes the sound. a crude replication.
he imagines an explosive firework-display of blood and carnage. uncle laughing, red in the teeth. his apron smattered in grease and pulp. in every direction, blood splatters.
this is how i did it, he says. well, boy--ain't you gonna eat?