I didn’t lose my soul. The Veal Eater never gave up the Ghost.
It was dark there, underground, but not dank; not mossy; no lichen or tangled roots descending from above. That’s tacky. Those caverns and graves are for the cliches. The stumbling decrepit victims of the world who rise like Jesus from the Tomb. Our place was clean, sterile, and pragmatic.
The exchange of grey matter for sawdust was less mystical than it was medical. We didn’t go to sleep, pink and dreaming, and wake up dark and deadly, magically transformed from persons to monsters. We weren’t cursed; we weren’t blessed. And we weren’t an accident. I’d tell you to ask him, but just like in every honest depiction of creation, he was the first victim, meal, loss. Adam killed God, and saw that it was good.
If you are a dualist, a foolish, naive dualist, you probably think it was never tied to the brain, not even to the pineal gland as the grandfather of modern dualists thought it was. You probably think the soul is never lost, just changed, distorted, corrupted. That it lifts out of the body with the tidal breath.
If you are a materialist you probably deny me a soul anyway; or you think it was irrevocably tied to the lump of meat sucked out of my skull, fired down the hose like Augustus Gloop ascending to the Hell of Wonka’s factory. That without the brain there is no soul, no essential being, no definition of the person.
But I was always like this. If the sawdust did anything to my soul, my essential being, my me, it intensified it. The cattle were always food, I just didn’t know how to eat. So I nibbled away, consuming them as they consumed me, and each other, an endless circle of hunger and inhumanity.
I’m just better at it now.