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As a child, my favorite days were Sunday, because that's when my father was home. As a renowned anesthesiologist, he worked six days a week and only came home after I had long since been tucked in, so I never really got to see him. But he would always eat lunch with me on Sundays.

Sitting in the elegant dining hall, my parents and I would sit at the table and eat the best meal of the week, prepared by our expert cooking staff. The food was so good it nearly brought me to tears on the first bite.

My father would ask me about school and how my grades were. I would always have a stack of graded homework assignments and tests prepared to show him while we ate. When I got good grades, he would say "That's my boy!" and sit up straight with pride. When I got bad grades, he would yell at me. "No carnie is going to get ahead in life with grades like these!" His reprimands hurt, but the food on my plate was good enough solace.

I'd tell him about my friends and classmates. He'd always ask about the carnie students.

"Wolf Toby and Coyote Nathaniel got in a fight this week," I had once mentioned. "They bit at each other and even got sent to the principal's office."

"Typical." My father muttered. "Weak-minded carnivores will always bear their fangs before their brains."

"Why are carnies so violent, father? I'm a carnie and I never feel the need to fight."

My father's large tufted ears slid back pensively. "Bad upbringings, Solomon. Carnies who were never taught to think, articulate, and rationalize will blame their instincts and their temper, never themselves. You may be a caracal, but you were given a good upbringing, and so you don't need to fall back on such a weak excuse."

My mother nodded silently, and smiled at me. At that moment I felt a spark of pride. I was proud of my parents, of myself, of my attitude. I was proud of being better than other carnies. They were lazier and less disciplined, but I could raise my head high for controlling myself. It really wasn't that hard, after all.

I never really related to the other carnies. They liked running, and biting, and rough-housing. They would get in trouble with the teacher, and sit in the back of the class, and laugh really loud. Father told me it was because I was smarter than them. So I stopped talking to them, and made more friends with the herbivores.

As I grew older and neared the end of elementary school, my grades only improved. Though my friends and teachers commended me, the other carnies only looked at me with contempt.

"Look at Mr. Wannabe-Herbie," They sneered. "He thinks he's better than us just because he's teacher's pet."

And I did. In fact, I knew I was. Those dumb carnies only made fun of me because it's easier than putting in the effort to improve themselves. Stupid, juvenile carnies. But I am what a carnie should be.

At the end of third grade, I showed my father my report card during Sunday lunch. Straight A's, naturally. He and my mother praised me all throughout the meal. Their kind words seasoned my food and made it taste all the better.

Which reminded me. These Sunday lunches always have spectacular food, but I never really bothered to ask what it was made of. Were these some kind of imported vegetables? I've never had anything like it outside of home, but I assumed it's because our private chefs were first class.

Out of curiosity, I asked my parents. Their smiles vanished and they turned to look at each other, an entire silent conversation going on in their eyes. After a while, they returned their gaze to me, now filled with hesitant anticipation, like they were about to explain where babies came from.

"Well, I think you're old enough to know," my father began. "In this world, things aren't alway perfect. Sometimes to improve oneself, and live in harmony with others, one must... do difficult things."

I peered down at my meal, at my blurry reflection in the rich, succulent, brown sauce, unable to look away.

And I found out why it tasted so good.

Since my father worked in the hospital, he did favors for black market merchants. Hooked them up with "fresh produce". And in return, they would sell to him at discounted prices. Standard practice for any hospital, apparently, though no one really speaks about it.

"Any respectable carnivore learns how to satisfy their instincts in a discreet manner. Usually, they only learn about the black market much later in life, but you have the privilege of starting early. I wish my father had done this much for me when I was your age."

Suddenly, I had lost my appetite. After lunch, I returned to my room to brush my teeth, as my mother had taught me. But I barely placed the toothbrush on my tongue before I vomited all over the bathroom floor.

That brown, chewed up bile that heaved out of me... it was once an animal, a person who breathed and thought. What type of animal was this slush? What was their name, their job, their dreams? What right did I have to rob them of eternal rest?

No, not just them. Every single Sunday, for years, I had been damning another innocent soul who should have been buried with dignity. Was I to be their graveyard until I too, perished? Would their souls haunt my stomach until I starved?

I didn't eat for a week after that. I would retch as soon as anything approached my mouth. I could barely even stomach water. It tasted salty and warm like blood. I couldn't leave my room, I couldn't even leave my bed. All I could do was think. And during that time, I learned a lot.

I realized why I was better than all the other carnivores. My father had led me to believe it was simply because I was smarter, more mature, more obedient. But that couldn't be further from the truth. I had been unknowingly doping on meat every week ever since my teeth first set in.

I judged other carnies as weak because they couldn't learn to control what I thought were trivial cravings. But I was the weakest of all of them. With my blood-thirst quenched, I couldn't comprehend what kind of struggles they actually faced eating a meat-free diet.

To think I jeered at them, and looked down on them. My twisted privilege had destroyed whatever sense of integrity or pride I could possibly feel. After all, none of my accomplishments were my own. They were all the work of some nameless animal that had been served to me with garnish.

Father said all carnivores eat meat at home. The black market was a necessary evil, because it allowed carnivores to coexist peacefully with herbivores. Without it, there would be predation attempts in every street.

The very thought made me want to kill myself. If a caracal like me couldn't exist without blood on my hands, without taking someone else's life to maintain my reason, then I'd rather just die.

The following week I didn't eat Sunday lunch. And then my body started to go in withdrawal. I was already weak enough from hunger, but the symptoms of meat withdrawal nearly killed me. My body was racked with violent tremors, and I could only writhe around pathetically in my sweat-soaked sheets. As I stared into the darkness of my room, I could only think about how I deserved every second of this.

One of the maids found me on the floor, too weak to move. I don't recall much of what happened next, but I remember a cluster of worried voices and blinding fluorescent lights whizzing by. I realized I was in the hospital my father worked at. I wondered whether I would be sold to the black market if I died there.

I awoke on a hospital bed. Some nurse, a rodent of some sort, informed me I had been taken in emergency care for starvation and meat withdrawal.

"But don't worry," she added reassuringly. "Your father will make sure no one else knows about this. He's good friends with the staff here."

Right then, I felt overcome with an urge to bite her face off. But of course, I was too weak to even open my mouth, let alone attack her.

The meat withdrawal incident was never brought up again. Once my mother arrived to pick me up from the E.R. a few days later, we simply shared a silent car ride home, and the matter was left to be eventually forgotten. I have yet to forget a single detail of those days, but I'm sure she has.

We stopped doing Sunday lunch after that. My meals were simply brought to my room by a maid, like any other day. Which meant I hardly ever saw my father from then on. Perhaps it was for the best. Whenever we did catch a brief glimpse of each other, he only looked at me with disappointment in his eyes.

"I thought you were mature enough to live in the world of adults," he seemed to say. "But it seems you couldn't handle reality."

Reality... the reality was that carnies, no mater how intelligent all need meat. Even after being discharged from the hospital, my body still yearned for those Sunday dinners. The taste of flesh loomed in my tongue, never to be forgotten. Whenever a herbivore got a paper cut in class, I had to excuse myself before the smell put me in a frenzy. I would sit in a locked toilet stall, desperate to stop my convulsions and salivation in time for next period. Of course, my grades suffered greatly. Without satiating my predatory drive, I could no longer focus on the lessons or assignments. It was all a jumble of nonsensical noises and shapes. I simply fidgeted in my chair, trying not to look at any of the other students for fear I would start guessing what they would taste like.

I had lost all my friends. Just the sight of them made me want to vomit. These herbivores were my food, not my friends. Going back in the carnie circle was not an option, either. Even if they didn't resent me for my arrogance, and even if they hadn't tasted meat yet, they're all future killers. One day, they'll learn about the black market, and visit once in a while for a self-indulgent snack, which will turn into a monthly occasion, which will turn into a weekly meal. They'll stop being so loud and violent, and others will all think they've finally matured. And maybe that's what maturity is for a carnivore.

I lived in meaningless guilt until well into middle school. Looking back on it, I'm not quite sure how I made it that far. I suppose regardless of how acidic one's self-loathing is, the need to prolong one's existence, no matter how miserable, is always stronger. That doesn't mean I didn't think about it. Everyone noticed it, but nobody wanted to mention it.

If this were a TV show or a movie, this is the part where I would be saved from my agony by a loved one, or a kind stranger, or a religion, or a therapist. But this was reality. And in reality, the only one who can save you, is you.

The plan was simple: I was going to get back on top or die trying. If a carnivore couldn't excel without eating meat, he deserved to die. Maybe I was setting myself up to fail with such an impossibly lofty goal, but this was my last gambit. I either work my way to success or to my grave. Both options sounded equally as appealing.

With nothing to lose, I poured myself in my studies. From dawn to dusk, weekends or holidays, I worked as if I were possessed. Academics, extracurriculars, socialization. It was all I thought about, all I dared to think about. I ignored my cravings, my hunger, my exhaustion, my misery. My carnivorous urges became a fever I could simply sweat out.

I once saw a documentary on mountain-dwelling monks, who forced themselves to live in horribly cold conditions, fasting for weeks on end and confined to minuscule spaces where they could only meditate. This was all for the purpose of reaching nirvana, or a state of enlightenment. When I saw this, I wondered why anyone would subject themselves to this brutal self-imposed torture. Just like the mind of a child to undervalue inner peace.

I had become a monk in my own right. I bled until no more blood came out, and wept until there were no more tears left. I had spewed my entire being out, until I was left empty. Completely, utterly, totally empty. And it felt wonderful.

There is power in emptiness. When there is nothing left, you control everything. From one's body to one's mind, you become malleable and flowing like a river. So really, everything else is a cakewalk. Problems begin and end in the mind. And one you have beat the mind into submission, you have successfully mastered the universe.

Carnivores eat herbivores, this much is true. But now that my body no longer belongs to God, He has no say in what I need to eat. This worthless, empty body is mine and mine alone.