**Heavy Dead Dove: Do Not Eat,**
heed the tags,
what it says on the tins,
need i say more ?

**Content:** Extreme Gore, detailed cannibalism, failed abdominal suicide, slow painful death while conscious, organ consumption, black comedy, nihilism

if you continue reading after these warnings and get offended, that's 100%, no... 1000% on you.

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**The Last Monday**
*A Garfield Fanfiction*

Monday. Oh God, how I hate Mondays.

My hatred for Nermal’s presence, my hatred for Odie’s abhorrent breath, or even for the cold leftover lasagna that’d been sitting in the fridge for too long — none of it compares to Mondays.

Every single week, it’s all the same. But this Monday was… off. So different that I couldn’t quite place it.

And so, the curiosity that has supposedly been the end of cats better than me had dragged me out of my warm bed to go wake up my helpless owner, Jon Arbuckle.

Jon was a man I had grown to loathe. He became a man-shaped void. A constant reminder of why I prefer the company of a mirror.

Every day, I have to leave MY bed. I have to leave MY comfort, to wake up a man who has forgotten that he was even human in the first place.

I would go as far as to say that Jon Arbuckle is the furthest thing from a man any human could ever be.

I was halfway down the hall to Jon’s room before something else had caught my attention.

It was silent.

Usually around this time in the morning, Odie would be licking me with that terrible slobbery tongue of his. But he wasn’t anywhere to be seen, heard, and thankfully, smelt.

I changed course and made my way downstairs.

I went into the kitchen to see if Odie had perhaps slept in. Not that I cared. If he was still asleep, I would light his tail on fire. That would awake even the stupidest of mutts.

But when I walked into the kitchen, an unfamiliar, unwelcomed feeling hit me.

This feeling hit me in the gut, but instead of ricotta being in my stomach, it was the feeling of an alarm clock — a sound I had never heard in my entire life.

As I scanned for any form of life, I found only the remnant of a past life. The white bowl was gone. There was no kibble, no puddles of water that stupid mutt had spilt, no drool stains on the floor.

What’s more is that the air in the kitchen smelt of chemical bleach. The smell only added to the eeriness of the morning.

Everything that would have pointed to Odie’s existence was gone. The only thing that would ever even point to that idiotic canine ever living here was his blue collar, sitting in the middle of the kitchen island.

I stared at it for a few moments, watching the dull morning light shine off the metal buckle.

I stared for a moment longer.

And it hit me.

Odie, the brainless, idiotic mutt that I had wished would just disappear, was finally gone.

I had spent decades imagining this moment in my mind, and now it’s my reality. I wanted this so badly. But I couldn’t accept this as my reality. I wouldn’t.

And even if I did, I know deep down I wouldn’t feel anything. Odie has always been a thorn in my side. If he truly was gone, I would be happy.

It was then that I remembered something from Sunday night.

Jon was oddly quiet. He hadn’t scolded me for tripping him in the hallway, he didn’t even praise Odie. He just stared aimlessly. He had petted my head once, but his hands were cold. Devoid of the warmth that once annoyed me. It was the coldness of a man who was no longer human.

“Garfield, I’ve failed you. As a man, as an owner, as a human being. I’ve failed everyone.”

“Yeah, whatever Jon. Just give me my fucking lasagna. Feeding me is what is keeping me from clawing your furniture. It’s the only reason why you exist. And don’t you forget it.”

Those were my last words to him. And I didn’t even know it.

But did I care…? Of course not. Because it was the truth.

It was at that moment that I heard it. A loud, deafening sound.

**BOOM**

I jumped from the sudden loud noise. But I knew it wasn’t an ordinary sound I’d heard before breakfast. This wasn’t the sound of a door closing, or Jon falling out of bed, or anything that would point to me being able to get on with my day.

It was a single, violent, final punctuation mark of a sentence I had no idea Jon was writing.

The sound of my claws on the linoleum was the only sound in the entire house.

I turned away from the collar quickly, leaving it in the lifeless morning light. The smell of bleach still stayed with me, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.

That annoying feeling from earlier came back. It was an inconvenience for me more than anything. I shouldn’t care about Jon or that stupid dog. The only thing I care for on the morning of the worst day of the week is breakfast.

But curiosity got the best of me.

I ran up the stairs, my paws and claws hitting and scratching the cold wood floors. The sound rang throughout the entire house.

I eventually got to Jon’s door. I could feel an aura coming from the door, reminiscent of expired cheese mixed with something sharper, like gunpowder and fresh blood. The door was locked. But that didn’t matter to me. What mattered to me was getting to Jon so I could finally get some answers. He owed me that much.

I used all of my weight in an attempt to break down the door. On my last attempt, I hurled myself at the door. Finally, it gave way with a splintering crack.

Upon entering the room, a thick, metallic stench hit my nose — steak cooked in expired milk, but heavier, warmer, mixed with the acrid bite of gunpowder. The smell of the room hit me like lasagna on Tuesday night used to, except this time the stench was thick, coppery, and still pulsing with faint life.

Jon was slumped back against the headboard, not fully gone. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths — wet, gurgling rattles that sounded like a failing engine. A large, ragged wound gaped in his lower abdomen where the bullet had torn through. Dark crimson blood still oozed slowly from the entry and exit holes, soaking the sheets and splattering the nearby wall in a messy arc. The handgun lay limp in his slack fingers on the mattress beside him. He had clearly meant for a clean end. He had failed at that too.

His eyelids fluttered weakly when I landed on the bed. Glassy eyes tried to focus on me for a moment before drifting. A thin trail of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and his free hand twitched faintly near the wound, as if trying — and failing — to hold his insides together.

I jumped up onto the bed. It was there that I found a note. It was slightly stained with blood. It was Jon’s handwriting without a doubt. The same, shaky script. It read:

“Dear Garfield,

If you are reading this, I have committed suicide.

You were right. I have no purpose aside from feeding you. My life is nothing but a joke. But it’s not just every Monday. It’s every day of the week. I am nothing but a laughing stock. I’m a shell of the man I used to be.

If you’re wondering where Odie is, you don’t have to worry about him. Not that you ever did. I know what kind of cat you are, Garfield. You live solely for yourself. You love no one but yourself. And honestly? I can’t even hate you for that. I knew from the start there was nothing I could do to ever please you.

I have scrubbed this house clean. Any evidence pointing to my existence is gone. All that is left in this house is my corpse, and you.

I suppose in the end, it was always going to end up this way. Just you, and the man-shaped void.

… Garfield, I’ve decided to become useful to you, for once in my entire life. I am the only meal left in this house. Take this as an apology for all the times the lasagna was cold. I’m sorry.”

“The last meal in this house, huh?” I murmured, mostly to myself.

Jon’s lips moved. No real words came out — just a soft, broken exhale that might have once tried to be my name. A weak, pained whimper followed.

I rubbed my head against his trembling, cold hand out of some useless old habit, then dragged my tongue slowly across the torn flesh of his cheek. Salty. Coppery. Still faintly warm with whatever miserable life clung to him.

His body gave a weak jerk beneath me. Another pitiful whimper bubbled up from his throat as my tongue pressed against the raw skin.

My teeth sank deeper into his cheek, meeting resistance at first, then giving way with a wet, fibrous tear. The sound was oddly satisfying — like pulling apart overcooked noodles, but richer. Jon’s breath hitched sharply, a choked gasp escaping as fresh blood welled up.

As I chewed, the thick, metallic juice coated my whiskers and dripped onto the blood-soaked sheets. I glanced out the window at the indifferent morning light catching in his glassy, half-open eyes.

“Mondays never were your favorite either, huh Jon?”

Another shallow, rattling breath answered — weaker now, wetter. His chest rose with visible effort.

I swallowed, licked blood from my chops, and took another slow bite from his neck. His pulse fluttered faintly against my tongue, a pathetic, fading throb. A soft gurgling sound slipped from his lips.

“Tuesdays are definitely better,” I said between chews, my voice low and amused. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

His body trembled faintly under me — the last pathetic attempt at reaction.

I laughed quietly to myself. “Finally, some good fucking food.”

I leaned in closer, straddling Jon’s chest like it was just another lazy afternoon on the couch. My claws hooked under the delicate skin around his eyes and twisted slowly.

The first eyeball gave a soft, wet squelch, like stepping on an overripe grape. Thick, warm juice welled up immediately, spilling over my paw. Jon’s whole body convulsed once beneath me — a helpless, full-body shudder. A choked, wet gasp tore from his throat as I lapped it up greedily, the spongy texture yielding between my teeth. Delicious, in its own messy way. No cold edges. No disappointing congealed cheese. Just fresh, warm, and entirely mine.

The second eye came out easier. Another satisfying squish, another rush of fluid. Jon’s breathing grew even shallower — quick, panicked little hitches rapidly losing strength. I drank straight from the socket, letting the metallic warmth coat my tongue.

Next came the nose. I sank my teeth into the cartilage, tearing it free with a fibrous rip. Jon’s head twitched weakly to the side. I chewed once, twice, then spat the gristle onto the pillow. Not worth the effort.

I dragged my claws down the center of Jon’s abdomen, right alongside the existing gunshot wound. The skin split open further with a slow, reluctant shrrrrrip, widening the ragged hole. His body arched faintly — one final, feeble attempt at resistance. A thick, warm wave of dark blood and yellowish fluid bubbled up, steaming in the stale morning air. His breaths turned into desperate, gurgling gasps.

The smell was overwhelming now: heavy, sweet-rotten, intimate. It coated the inside of my nostrils and clung there.

I buried my face into the gaping wound, enlarging the mess he had started. My paws sank into the yielding mass of intestines, slick and ropey, coiled like pale, bloated serpents. They slid against each other with soft, squelching resistance as I pulled a length free. Jon’s chest gave one final, stuttering rise beneath me.

I bit down. Warm juices burst across my tongue — thick, metallic, with that sour undercurrent of bile. His body trembled weaker and weaker with every pull and tear.

I tore deeper, claws raking through loops of gut, unraveling them in wet, heavy coils that spilled across the blood-soaked sheets like discarded ropes from some forgotten marionette. Each yank produced a moist glorp and a faint hiss of escaping gas. Jon’s breaths grew softer… quieter… little more than faint, wet sighs now.

The liver came next — dense and rubbery. As I chewed slowly, savoring the dense texture, his movements finally stilled except for one last, almost imperceptible twitch.

Lower still, the stomach sac itself — already ruptured and thin-walled from the bullet — split open under my fangs with almost no effort. A rush of half-digested remnants poured out, mixing with fresh blood in a grotesque slurry. I lapped at the exposed cavity, my tongue dragging across the slick inner lining while the last traces of unnatural warmth clung to the organs.

Jon’s final breath left him in a soft, slow rattle — barely audible, like a sigh of complete surrender — right as I popped one of his kidneys between my molars with a crisp, wet crunch.

The house fell perfectly silent.

No Odie. No Jon sighing or shuffling. Just the wet, rhythmic sounds of me tearing and chewing… and the slow, deliberate way the cavity widened into a raw, glistening chasm — ribs faintly visible now at the edges like pale arches framing a nightmare painting.

Jon’s torso had become something deformed, unnatural: a hollowed-out vessel of meat and membrane, the organs rearranged by my hunger into a new, obscene configuration. Yet he lay there, eyes long gone, face half-eaten, still somehow… present. A man-shaped void finally filled with purpose — after one last, pathetic failure.

I paused, blood and viscera dripping from my muzzle, and licked my chops.

“Not bad,” I murmured to the quiet room. “A little gamey. Could use some sauce. But it’ll do for a Monday.”

The late light kept pouring through the window, illuminating every glistening strand and pooling fluid, turning the bed into a canvas of reds and yellows and pale, twisted coils that no one would ever clean up.

**FIN**