Egel

[ Tags: Slaughterhouse, Cannibalism; Genre: Ero guro ]

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Egel: Egel is a boy on the cusp of twelve, his short hair a vivid red with darker tips that spike upward in wild disarray. His eyes burn yellow-orange, their intensity softened by the flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. His frame is slight and lean, stripped of fat, with muscles that hint at definition—taut and compact beneath his skin. That skin, warm and light orange in tone, bears the stark marks of an indelible marker: hatched lines encircling his neck, wrists, and ankles, tracing every joint mapped for a butcher's blade. Between his legs, his small penis remains smooth and hairless.

Egel's society is built on patriarchal foundations, shaped by generations of famine and overpopulation that drove people to cannibalism. Now the practice endures only as tradition—reserved for religious holidays like Easter or celebrations honoring the achievements of firstborn sons. The butcher shop is a place for females: young girls, women, and mothers alike are sent there. Every story, every anime, every film depicts this fate as feminine. The language reflects it too—females are casually called "meat", even in anatomy classes at school. Meanwhile, boys are raised to chase success and father children.

Egel is the youngest in his family, coddled and overlooked in equal measure. No one expects anything from him. No one scolds him for poor grades. No one invests in him—not even enough to buy him clothes. He wears hand-me-downs from his older brothers, faded and stretched. For Egel, it's been easy: weekends spent playing on his brothers' old consoles, no chores, no pressure. This year, his father forgot to enroll him in school entirely, leaving him with an accidental gap year to do nothing at all.

At his oldest brother's graduation—and to celebrate his move into a new place with his girlfriend—Egel's family gathered like they always did for special occasions: to plan a traditional barbecue. Egel's eyes drifted to his mother. The logic was simple. His youngest sister had been eaten years ago to celebrate their father's promotion, and now his mother was the only woman left in the family. He stared at her chest, throat tightening as he swallowed hard, imagining the taste of her flesh. But before the thought could settle, the conversation shifted. Suddenly, everyone was talking about Egel. About roasting him. His stomach dropped. Heat flooded his face. He couldn't speak. The humiliation burned—his own family treating him like a girl, like meat.

Egel wanted to speak up—after all, he was a boy, and boys were supposed to brag about their grades, their strength, their intelligence, their worth like everyone else. But he had nothing to boast about. No good grades. No sports trophies. He was just mama's boy.

His mother withheld water from him for days, ensuring his body would be as lean and dry as possible by the time they reached the butcher. She made him fast the day before so his intestines would be empty. At the shop, they cropped his hair short with dull scissors. They traced lines across his skin with marker, mapping out cuts of meat. Then they stripped him bare and made him walk in a line with other naked girls his age, clutching only a shipping label with his home address—proof of where his butchered meat would be sent. Egel's face burned. The girls around him giggled and whispered, eyes roaming his body. Some mistook him for a tomboy. Others snickered at the sight of a boy being prepped for slaughter.

Egel stood with his legs pressed together, squirming at the water trickling down his thighs—remnants of the intestinal flush they'd forced into him with a metal pump after stripping him bare. His rectum still ached from the rigid tube and the relentless pressure of the water.

From his place in line, Egel saw it all. Girls his age were hoisted naked by their armpits onto the butcher's table, their bare skin meeting cold stainless steel. Without hesitation, a serrated blade pressed between their breasts, piercing flesh, then dragged downward in one brutal stroke. Their intestines spilled onto the table in wet, glistening coils. Before they could scream, a water hose blasted into their split-open bellies, flushing out the gore. Then they were flipped over, and the butcher's axe came down—again and again—hacking through bone and muscle as they choked and twitched in their final moments. The girls waiting in line barely flinched. They'd grown up reading manga where scenes like this were just another Tuesday.