New Year's Family Feast

The steam curled thickly from the surface of the bathwater, fogging the small mirror above the sink. Xiaoyu lay submerged up to his chin, elbows resting on the edges of the claw-foot tub, his small body pink from the heat. The water smelled faintly of rosemary and salt—Mom always added a handful of coarse sea salt on the morning of the feast. It was tradition.

He tilted his head back and let his eyes drift closed. From the kitchen below came the muffled thud of a cleaver against the cutting board, a rhythm he had known his whole life. *Chop. Chop. Rest. Chop.* The sound made his stomach flutter with something that felt like joy.

On the bamboo stool beside the tub sat a glass of warm milk. It had a slight bitter aftertaste, but Xiaoyu had been drinking it for three years now, ever since he was old enough to understand what the New Year’s bath truly meant. The painkillers would make everything easier—for him, for everyone. He took another sip, letting the milk pool on his tongue before swallowing. “Good boy,” he whispered to himself, parroting the praise he knew was coming.

He set the glass down and began his cleaning ritual. First, he soaped the washcloth and scrubbed his arms, watching the lather run in white rivers down his wrists and between his fingers. He was careful around his nails, digging the brush under each one until they were spotless. Then his legs, his feet, the soft curve of his belly. He even washed behind his ears, tilting his head so the water could rinse away the last trace of foam.

When he was satisfied, he stood, dripping, and reached for the towel Mom had left warming on the radiator. The fabric was thick and soft, and he pressed it against his face, breathing in the scent of fabric softener and home. He dried himself slowly, deliberately, the way one might polish a prized ornament before placing it on the shelf.

The bathroom door creaked open a crack. Mom’s voice came through, low and warm, like honey poured over a blade. “Xiaoyu? Are you finished?”

“Almost, Mom.” He wrapped the towel around his body and opened the door.

Mom stood in the hallway, her hands clasped in front of her apron. The apron was white, with a faint smear of something dark near the hem. Her eyes traveled over him—the damp hair clinging to his forehead, the pink flush on his cheeks, the white towel against his skin—and she smiled. It was a gentle smile, the kind she gave him on Christmas morning or when he brought home a perfect test score.

“You look wonderful,” she said. “So clean.” She reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind his ear. “Did you drink all your milk?”

“Every drop.”

“Good.” Her thumb traced the line of his jaw. “The pain will be easier that way. You remember what we practiced? The breathing?”

Xiaoyu nodded. “Slow in, slow out. Count to ten.”

“That’s my boy.” She took his hand, her palm warm and dry, and led him down the hallway toward the kitchen. As they passed the living room, he saw Dad sharpening the long knife on a steel rod, the scrape-scrape-scrape a counterpoint to the cleaver’s thud. The blade caught the light as Dad turned it, testing the edge with his thumb.

Older Brother stood beside him, holding a second knife—smaller, meant for the fine work. His eyes flicked up when Xiaoyu entered, and there was hunger in them, but not the kind that came from an empty stomach. It was envy, pure and sharp.

“You’re so lucky,” Brother said, his voice low. “I wish I was you.”

Xiaoyu felt his chest swell. “Maybe next year,” he said.

Mom squeezed his hand. “Come. Let’s get you set up.” She guided him to the kitchen table, which had been cleared and covered with a thick plastic sheet. A clean white cloth was spread over the center, and a wooden board sat at the head of the table, the grain darkened from years of use.

Xiaoyu climbed onto the stool she pulled out for him. The towel bunched beneath him, but he didn’t bother adjusting it. He was ready.

“You’re a good boy, Xiaoyu,” Mom said, her voice soft and proud. “The best ingredient a mother could ask for.”

He smiled, letting the praise settle into his bones like warmth from the bath.

Xiaoyu stepped out of the bathroom, the frills of the lolita dress rustling around his thin legs. The white lace collar framed his neck, and the pale blue fabric made him look like a porcelain doll. His older brother, Li Wei, stood in the hallway, already dressed in his own pink maid costume, a smirk spreading across his face.

"Look at you," Li Wei said, his voice dripping with mock admiration. "All dressed up like a little bride. Did you pick that yourself, or did Mom help?"

Xiaoyu blushed, but not from embarrassment. He felt a warm flutter in his chest, that familiar thrill that came with being the center of attention. He smoothed the skirt with his small hands. "Mom said I'd look pretty."

"Pretty," Li Wei repeated, stepping closer. His eyes dropped down, and the smirk widened. "And I see you're pretty excited about it too."

Xiaoyu looked down. The front of the dress tented slightly. He felt his face grow hotter, but he didn't try to hide it. "It's just... I'm happy."

Li Wei laughed, a sharp, envious sound. "Happy to be dinner. Lucky you. I was eleven too, once. But I wasn't the main course. Just a side dish." He reached out and flicked the lace sleeve. "Next year, maybe I'll be the one on the chopping block. If I'm good enough."

Xiaoyu nodded eagerly. "You will be. You're always good."

From the kitchen, their father's voice boomed. "Boys! Come here. It's time."

Xiaoyu's heart leaped. He took a step, but Li Wei grabbed his wrist. "Wait. Let me see you spin. One last spin before you become meat."

Xiaoyu twirled, the skirt flaring out. Li Wei clapped slowly, his eyes hungry. "Perfect."

They walked into the living room. The coffee table had been pushed aside, and in the center of the rug stood a large wooden guillotine, its blade gleaming under the ceiling light. Dad stood beside it, wiping the edge with a cloth. Mom was seated on the sofa, a glass of red wine in her hand, a soft smile on her lips.

"There he is," Dad said, his voice proud. "My little man. Or should I say, my little lady?" He chuckled, patting the wooden frame of the guillotine. "Come here. Let me measure you."

Xiaoyu walked over, his bare feet silent on the rug. Dad positioned him in front of the guillotine, tilting his head back so his neck rested in the wooden cradle. The cool metal of the blade was inches above his skin.

"How does it feel?" Mom asked, her voice gentle.

"Good," Xiaoyu whispered. "It feels right."

Dad stepped back, hands on his hips. "Almost ready. But first, tradition. Your mother has a question for you."

Mom set down her wine and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her eyes were warm, loving. "Xiaoyu, my darling. Before we begin, you get one last wish. Anything you want. Anything at all."

Xiaoyu's breath caught. The dress felt tight around his chest. His mind raced through all the possibilities: a final meal, a toy, a story. But his body knew the answer before his mind did. The erection pressed against the fabric, a silent demand.

"I want to fuck you, Mom."

The words came out clear, matter-of-fact, as if he were asking for a glass of water.

Li Wei burst out laughing, a wild, delighted sound. Dad raised an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face. But Mom's expression didn't change. She smiled wider, a slow, genuine smile, and stood up.

"Of course," she said, her voice still soft. "That's a very good wish."

She walked over to Xiaoyu and took his hand. Dad stepped aside, pulling the guillotine back a few feet to make room. Mom dropped to her knees on the rug, bringing her face level with Xiaoyu's waist. She looked up at him, her eyes bright.

"Last wishes are sacred," she said, and pulled down the front of his dress. His small penis sprang free, already stiff and leaking. She wrapped her lips around it without another word.

Xiaoyu gasped, his hands flying to her hair. Her mouth was warm, wet, and she knew exactly what she was doing. He had never done this before, but he had imagined it, dreamed of it. Her tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles. He moaned, his knees buckling, but Dad's strong hands caught him from behind and held him upright.

"Steady now," Dad murmured in his ear. "Let her have her meal."

Li Wei crept closer, crouching beside them. He watched with wide eyes, his hand slipping between his own thighs. "Mom's amazing," he whispered. "I wish I could trade places with you right now."

Xiaoyu couldn't answer. His eyes were squeezed shut, and all he could feel was the warmth of his mother's mouth, the gentle pressure of her hands on his hips. She took him deeper, her throat working around him. He was floating, weightless, everything soft and white.

It didn't take long. His body shuddered, and he cried out as he came, a thin trickle of fluid that she swallowed without hesitation. She pulled back, her lips glistening, and smiled up at him.

"Good boy," she said. "Now you're ready."

Dad helped Xiaoyu lie down on the rug, his head fitting neatly back into the wooden cradle. Mom stood above him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. Li Wei knelt beside him, taking his hand.

"I love you, Xiaoyu," Mom said.

"I love you too," Xiaoyu whispered. He looked up at the blade, waiting.

Dad put his hand on the lever. "Any last words?"

Xiaoyu smiled, his eyes half-closed. "Thank you for eating me."

Dad pulled the lever. The blade fell clean and fast.

The kitchen hummed with quiet industry. Steam curled from a pot of boiling water on the stove, and the sharp scent of ginger and garlic hung in the air. Mom wiped her hands on her apron and pulled a notebook from the counter, flipping it open with a crisp snap.

"Let me run through the menu one more time," she said, her voice light and cheerful. "We want everything perfect for tonight."

Dad leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a proud smile tugging at his lips. Older Brother stood by the sink, drying a knife with a cloth, his eyes fixed on Mom.

"First course," Mom announced, tapping the page with her finger. "Braised Xiaoyu's hands. I'll use that soy-lucerne glaze your grandmother taught me. Slow-cook them until the skin is sticky and dark, the bones soft enough to suck clean." She paused, glancing toward the living room. "The cartilage should have a nice crunch if we get the timing right."

Xiaoyu, sprawled on the sofa with his feet dangling over the armrest, perked up. "Ooh, can I help season them? I want to taste the glaze!"

Mom smiled, a fond, tender expression. "You'll get to taste plenty, sweetheart. Don't worry."

She looked back at her notebook. "Second dish: fried little dick. Breaded, golden, with a dipping sauce of fermented chili and vinegar. Crispy on the outside, tender inside. Your father's favorite."

Dad nodded, licking his lips. "Always a treat. The texture is unmatched."

Older Brother set down the knife, his hands trembling slightly. "What about me? Am I just slicing vegetables again?"

Mom raised an eyebrow. "You'll help with the butchering. Your father needs an extra pair of hands to hold things steady. And you can prepare the marinade for the riblets—I'm cutting those from Xiaoyu's flank."

Xiaoyu sat up, grinning. "Riblets! With that honey-garlic glaze? I love those."

"Of course," Mom said. "And for the main, a slow-roasted thigh, bone in, stuffed with herbs and garlic cloves. We'll serve it with steamed buns to soak up the juice."

Dad clapped his hands together. "A proper feast. Our boy is going to make us proud tonight."

Xiaoyu flopped back onto the sofa, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling with a blissful smile. "I can't wait. I want everyone to be full."

Older Brother swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "He's so lucky."

Mom shot him a look—part sympathy, part warning. "Your time will come. Next year, maybe. Or the year after. We take turns."

"I know," Older Brother muttered, picking up the knife again. "But I'm ready now. I've been ready."

Xiaoyu giggled from the living room. "Don't be jealous, brother. You'll taste me anyway—you're eating too!"

"That's different," Older Brother said, but his eyes glistened.

Mom turned back to the stove, stirring a bubbling pot. "Alright, everyone. Let's get to work. We have a lot to do before sunset."

Dad walked into the living room and stood over Xiaoyu, looking down at him with a mixture of pride and hunger. "Ready, son?"

Xiaoyu stretched, yawning dramatically. "Born ready. Just tell me when."

"Soon," Dad said, patting his shoulder. "Soon."

The afternoon light slanted through the windows, casting golden rectangles across the floor. The house filled with the sounds of chopping, sizzling, and the low murmur of a family preparing for its most sacred meal.

The kitchen had been transformed into a preparation chamber. Mom pulled out a small notebook from the drawer, its cover stained with years of grease and splattered blood. She licked the tip of her pencil and looked at Xiaoyu with that same warm, clinical smile she always wore when measuring ingredients.

"Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get your numbers down for the family record."

Xiaoyu stood naked in the center of the tile floor, his skin goosebumped from the cool air. He puffed out his chest, trying to stand tall despite the shiver running through his thin frame. Mom circled him, her eyes tracing his limbs like a sculptor studying a block of marble.

"Age: eleven. Height?" She pressed the measuring tape against the top of his head, then let it fall to his heels. "One hundred forty-two centimeters. Growing well. Weight?" She gestured to the bathroom scale in the corner. Xiaoyu stepped onto it, watching the needle bounce and settle.

"Thirty-eight kilograms," Mom said, scribbling. "Good meat-to-bone ratio. Your father will be pleased."

She looked up from her notebook, her eyes meeting his. "Now, Xiaoyu. Are you here of your own free will? Do you offer yourself to the family feast?"

"Yes, Mom." His voice was clear, unwavering. "I want to be the New Year's Eve dinner. I want to be inside everyone."

Mom smiled, a genuine, tender smile. She wrote down a single word: VOLUNTARY. Then she closed the notebook and tucked it away.

"Then let’s begin the tradition."

Dad stepped forward, wiping his hands on his apron. "The dance first, son. Show us you’re proud."

Xiaoyu’s heart hammered with a strange cocktail of fear and exhilaration. He started to move, a clumsy, earnest strip dance across the kitchen floor. He swayed his hips, ran his hands over his own ribs and thighs, trying to embody the joy of offering. He kicked one leg up, spun, and ended with his arms outstretched, a final pose before the family.

Mom clapped softly. Older Brother whistled. Dad nodded, a gleam of approval in his eyes.

"Now the table."

Xiaoyu climbed onto the big wooden table, its surface scarred from years of carving, soaking, and cleaning. He lay on his back, his head propped on a folded towel. The only thing he wore were his white knee-high socks, pristine and clean, reaching just below his knees. He felt the grain of the wood against his bare skin, the cold seeping into his spine.

Dad approached with a pair of heavy shears, their blades glinting under the overhead light. He held them up for everyone to see, then lowered them to Xiaoyu’s groin.

"One snip, son. Be brave."

Xiaoyu nodded, closing his eyes. He felt the cold metal circle his little penis, felt the pressure, then the sudden, shocking *crunch* of the blades meeting. A bolt of pain shot through him, but it was distant, muffled by the adrenaline surging in his veins. He opened his eyes and saw the severed piece of flesh in Dad’s gloved hand, a tiny, pale thing no longer attached to him.

He wailed. Not from the physical hurt, but from the finality of it. "I can never have sex again! I’ll never be a man!"

Older Brother stepped up beside him, stroking his hair. "Hey, hey. Don’t cry, little bro. You can still be fucked. It’s even better, in some ways. You’ll see."

Xiaoyu sniffled, looking up at his brother through teary eyes. "Really?"

"Really." Older Brother’s voice was soft, soothing. He climbed onto the table, positioning himself between Xiaoyu’s parted legs. "Just relax. Let me show you."

He guided himself in, slowly, carefully. Xiaoyu gasped, his hands fisting the towel. The sensation was strange—full and invasive, but not entirely painful. Patches of warmth spread through his belly as Older Brother began to move, a steady rhythm building. Xiaoyu’s wails turned into shaky moans. His initial fear melted into a haze of pleasure, his hips starting to meet his brother’s thrusts.

"Good boy," Older Brother whispered. "You’re doing so good. Let go."

And Xiaoyu did. His body arched, his toes curled inside the white socks, and a cry escaped his lips as he climaxed, a shuddering release that emptied him of all tension. For a moment, he floated in a sea of bliss, his mind blank.

But the bliss didn’t last. Dad’s voice cut through the haze. "Time to finish the job."

Older Brother pulled out and stepped back, his face flushed. He picked up a cleaver from the counter, its blade heavy and sharp. He positioned it over Xiaoyu’s right ankle, just above the white sock.

"Sorry, little bro."

"No, it’s okay," Xiaoyu murmured, still floating in his orgasmic afterglow. "Do it. I want to be eaten."

The cleaver came down. A single, clean chop. The foot separated from the leg, a spray of blood painting the table. Xiaoyu screamed, a raw, primal sound, but it quickly faded into sobs. His body twitched, the severed nerves still firing.

Older Brother lifted the foot, still sheathed in its white sock. He brought it to his mouth, lips brushing the cotton. He could smell the faint salt of sweat, the blood still seeping through the fabric. He opened his mouth and sucked on the tiny toes, one by one, rolling them between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

Xiaoyu’s body convulsed with the final spasms. He gasped, his eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. He felt the sucking sensation as a distant echo, the last pleasure his body would ever know. Then the spasms slowed, his vision dimmed, and the world faded to black.

Older Brother pulled the foot away, the sock now stained red. He looked at it, a mix of envy and reverence in his eyes.

"Next year," he whispered. "Next year, I’ll be the one on the table."

The slaughter room smelled of clean metal and the faint, sweet undertone of Xiaoyu’s own skin. He lay strapped to the stainless steel table, arms spread wide, heart hammering with a joy that made his vision blur. The machine Dad had wheeled in was a compact hydraulic press with a gleaming blade—sharp enough to shave light, Dad always said.

“You ready, son?” Dad asked, his voice low and steady.

Xiaoyu nodded, swallowing a laugh. “Do it, Dad. Cut ’em off.”

Dad pressed a button. The blade descended with a soft hiss. The first bite of steel into his right wrist was cold, then hot, then a shock of white pain that didn’t hurt—it sang. Bone crunched like a crisp apple, and the hand fell away with a wet thump onto the draining tray. Xiaoyu gasped, not from agony but from the sheer rightness of it. Blood pulsed from the stump in a tidy rhythm, and he lifted his left arm, offering it.

“Again! Faster! Kill me, Dad!” His voice cracked with ecstasy. The thrill climbed up his spine, a hot electric current that made his toes curl. He was being unmade, and it was beautiful.

Dad’s eyes shone with pride. He positioned the second hand, and the blade dropped again. Another clean thud. Xiaoyu’s laughter spiraled into a high, ragged note. Mom stepped closer, wiping the table with a damp cloth, her expression serene.

“He’s taking it so well,” she said.

“He’s a good boy,” Dad agreed.

The older brother hovered by the tool rack, handing Dad the bone shears and the larger clamps. His gaze lingered on Xiaoyu’s stumps, a cruel longing in his eyes. “Will it hurt when you cut the arms?”

“No more than it already does,” Xiaoyu panted. “Feels like flying.”

Dad worked the shears into his right shoulder joint, a wet, grinding sound. The arm came free with a final crack, and Xiaoyu screamed—not in pain, but in release. The left arm followed. He was a torso now, a head and a trunk with pulses of life still pumping from four spurting ends. His vision swam with red and gold.

“Hang me up,” Xiaoyu whispered. “Please. I want to drip.”

Dad and the older brother lifted him—weightless now, a drained bird—and carried him to the overhead rail. Hooks pierced the flesh of his ankles, and a winch hauled him upward. His body swung, upside down, blood rain pattering onto the floor drain. The room tilted; everything was upside down and perfect.

Xiaoyu laughed, weak and giddy. Blood filled his mouth. He could taste the evening ahead: the broth, the dumplings, the shared warmth of his family eating him bite by bite. He was their feast, their New Year, their belonging.

“I love you all,” he called down to them, hanging like a pig in a market.

Mom looked up and smiled. “And we love you, sweetheart. You’ll be delicious.”

The brother wiped a smear of blood from his cheek and licked his fingers. He didn’t look away.

The kitchen air was thick with warmth and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Xiaoyu lay on the wooden block, his body truncated to a torso and a head. His arms and legs had been carried away by his father, who was now arranging them on a separate tray like prized cuts of meat. The boy’s eyes were bright, glassy with a deep, contented joy. He could feel the cool wood against his cheek, the slight vibration of his brother’s footsteps approaching.

Older Brother stepped up, his hands stained pink. There was a hungry, wistful look in his eyes as he looked down at the limbless Xiaoyu. “You look like a fish,” he said, a mixture of admiration and longing in his voice.

Xiaoyu smiled, his teeth red. “I feel like one. A happy fish.”

Older Brother lifted him carefully, cradling the torso against his chest. The boy’s spine was exposed in the back, a clean white line of bone where the knife had severed his connection to his legs. He set him down beside a dark, polished device at the far end of the table. It was the guillotine—a heavy oak frame with a brass groove for the neck, the blade already raised and glinting under the kitchen light.

“Head goes here,” Older Brother murmured, more to himself than to Xiaoyu. He tilted the boy’s chin up and guided his neck into the curved indent. It fit snugly, like a key in a lock. Xiaoyu’s face pointed toward the ceiling, and he could see the blade suspended above him, a thin sliver of silver against the white ceiling. He took a deep, shuddering breath of anticipation.

“Hold still,” Older Brother said. He checked the position, then stepped back to admire his work. The head was perfectly centered, the shoulders pressed flat against the wooden base. A small trickle of blood from the arm stumps began to pool under the torso, spreading in a dark flower across the wood.

Mom appeared beside him, a long, slender iron rod in her hand. The rod was polished smooth, its tip slightly rounded, and it glistened with a thin coating of oil. She smiled at Xiaoyu, a soft, maternal smile.

“Almost there, my little dumpling,” she said. “This will help the meat relax. The flavors will seep in better.”

Xiaoyu didn’t understand fully, but he trusted her. He felt her cool fingers lift his lower body slightly, exposing him. Then the tip of the iron rod pressed against the tight entrance of his anus. He stiffened for a moment, the sensation foreign and cold. But then she pushed, gently but firmly, sliding the rod inside him.

A wave of intense, unexpected pleasure surged through his core, rippling up his spine and into his brain. His vision went white for a moment, and a low, tremulous moan escaped his lips. His body arched as much as it could, his muscles clenching around the invading metal. It was the same electric bliss he had felt with the scalpel, but deeper, fuller, as if the rod were touching something inside him that no knife had ever reached.

He climaxed again, a hot spasm that shook his torso, leaving him breathless and flushed. His eyes rolled back, and he let out a soft, satisfied sigh. The rod was now fully inserted, and Mom patted his cheek.

“Good boy. You’re ready.”

Older Brother watched, his envy barely concealed. He licked his lips. “Will I be next year?”

Mom turned to him, her expression calm. “Perhaps. If you’re good.”

Xiaoyu could hear Dad’s heavy footsteps returning, carrying a platter of neatly sliced limbs. “We’ll need the head soon,” Dad said, his voice matter-of-fact. “Is he ready?”

“He’s ready,” Mom replied.

Xiaoyu stared up at the blade, feeling the iron rod inside him, a warm and pleasant weight. He was complete in his incompleteness, a perfect offering. He closed his eyes and smiled, waiting for the fall.

The kitchen smelled of blood and metal, a familiar perfume that wrapped around Xiaoyu like a warm blanket. He lay on the wooden block, his wrists and ankles bound with soft rope that his mother had woven the night before. The wood grain pressed into his cheek, cool and steady. Above him, the curved blade hung from a beam, catching the dim light from the window. His father stood beside it, one hand resting on the release cord. His older brother held the enamel basin at the foot of the block, eyes fixed on Xiaoyu with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

Mom stood near the stove, wiping a pot dry with a clean cloth. She hummed a New Year’s tune, low and content. Steam rose from the big soup pot on the burner, filling the room with the promise of broth and scallions. She had already laid out the cutting boards, the cleaver, the platters for the different cuts.

Xiaoyu turned his head to look at her. The movement tugged at the rope around his neck. He smiled. “Make sure you cook me deliciously!”

Mom paused her humming. She set down the pot and walked over to him, crouching beside the block. Her hand brushed his hair from his forehead, warm and gentle. “Of course, my darling. I will prepare you just right. The meat will be tender, the bones will make a fine stock. I will add the winter herbs you love.”

“And the skin,” Xiaoyu said. “Crispy. Like last year’s.”

“Crispy,” she promised. She kissed his temple.

Dad cleared his throat. “Time, son. Are you ready?”

Xiaoyu closed his eyes. He thought of the feast—the steaming platters, the laughter around the table, the way his family would chew and swallow him piece by piece, making him part of them forever. It was the greatest gift a son could give. His heart pounded, but not with fear. With belonging. With joy.

“Ready,” he whispered.

Dad pulled the release cord. The blade sang as it sliced through the air—a clean, metallic note—and then struck the back of Xiaoyu’s neck. There was no pain. Only a bright instant of pressure, a sound like a celery stalk snapping, and then nothing.

The head separated cleanly. It dropped into the enamel basin with a wet thud, landing face-up. Xiaoyu’s eyes were still open, still smiling, the lips slightly parted as if to speak. Blood pumped from the neck stump in thick, rhythmic jets, splashing onto the floor and the block.

Older Brother held the basin steady, staring down at the head. His mouth hung open. “He’s still smiling,” he said, voice thick with envy.

Mom came over with a cloth. She knelt and gathered the head in her hands, cradling it like a baby. She pressed a kiss to the forehead, then set it aside on the preparation table. “He was a brave boy. A good New Year’s gift.”

Dad wiped the blade clean and began to unhook the body. Xiaoyu’s legs twitched once, then stilled. The anus relaxed with the final release of tension, and a stream of semen spilled out, thin and white, pooling on the wooden block and dripping onto the floor. It was common in males his age, the father knew—the body’s last ejaculation, a final salute before the nerves died.

Mom noticed it without a flinch. She reached for a rag and wiped the block clean, smearing the fluid into the grain of the wood. “We should soak the meat before cooking,” she said calmly. “It’ll help remove any bitter blood.”

Older Brother set down the basin and approached the body. He touched Xiaoyu’s shoulder, still warm. “Next year,” he said softly. “Next year, I will be the one.”

Dad clapped him on the back. “You’ll have your turn, son. The family tradition carries on.”

Mom picked up a cleaver from the counter. She tested its edge with her thumb, then nodded at the hanging carcass of the pig they had slaughtered yesterday. “That one can wait. Tonight, we feast on my little Yu.”

She brought the cleaver down on Xiaoyu’s shoulder joint with a practiced precision. The bone cracked, the arm separated, and she laid it neatly on a platter. Steam from the soup pot curled up toward the ceiling. Outside, firecrackers began to pop in the distant street.

The New Year had begun.

The soul hovered near the ceiling, drifting in the warm steam that rose from the table. Below, the family ate. The air smelled of rich broth, of ginger and soy, of the crisp skin that crackled between teeth. Xiaoyu watched his mother lift a piece of his own shoulder to her lips, her eyes half-closed in pleasure. She chewed slowly, a soft smile on her face.

"Perfect tenderness," she said. "The marinating really worked this year."

Dad nodded, cutting another slice from the thigh. "He was a good boy. Strong. The meat has a clean sweetness."

The soul felt a warmth spread through its chest—a phantom echo of happiness. This was what he had wanted. This was what he had prepared for. Every bite his family took was a little piece of him joining them, becoming part of their bodies, their lives. He watched his younger brother—the one who was now the littlest—smear his face with sauce as he gnawed on a rib. Mom laughed and wiped the boy's chin with her thumb, then licked the thumb clean.

"You'll grow up strong," she said.

The soul floated closer to the table, wishing it could taste the air more fully. It was enough. More than enough. He belonged here, in their bellies, in their blood.

After the meal, Dad pushed back his chair and let out a long, satisfied belch. "Time to clear up."

He went to the kitchen and returned with a black plastic bag. From the counter, he picked up Xiaoyu's skull—cleaned, boiled, picked clean of every scrap. The bone was white and smooth, the jaw still articulated. Dad carried it casually, like a piece of firewood.

The basement door squeaked open. The soul followed, sliding down the stairs like a ribbon of light.

The basement was cool and dry. Along one wall, a shelf held skulls, arranged by size. Grandpa's was there, discolored with age. Uncle Liang's. A cousin from three years ago whose name Xiaoyu barely remembered. Dad placed the new skull at the end of the row, facing outward, and stood for a moment with his hand resting on the crown.

"Good work, son," he said quietly. Then he turned and went back upstairs.

The soul drifted among the skulls. It didn't feel lonely. It felt part of a lineage, a proud tradition. These empty eyes had all seen the same knife, the same love. Xiaoyu settled beside his grandfather's skull, content to wait for whatever came next.

Upstairs, the dishes were being cleared. The soul heard voices, laughter. Then the older brother's voice cut through, louder than the rest.

"Dad. I want to be next year."

The soul turned. It could still see through the floor if it focused. The family had gathered in the living room. Dad was wiping his hands on a towel, the older brother standing before him, arms stiff at his sides, his face flushed with determination.

"I'm ready," the brother said. "I've been training. I've been eating right. I want to give myself the way Xiaoyu did."

Mom looked at Dad, her eyebrows raised slightly, a small approving smile on her lips. Dad tossed the towel onto the table and walked toward his son.

"You're sure?" Dad's voice was low, serious.

"Yes." The brother's eyes never wavered. "I want to be part of everyone. I want to be remembered."

Dad placed his hands on the brother's shoulders, squeezed once. "Good boy."

Then he took the brother's hand and led him not to the slaughter room, but to the bedroom. The soul watched, curious. The brother followed without hesitation. Mom and the younger children stayed in the living room, but they listened, their heads turned toward the hallway.

In the bedroom, Dad closed the door. He spoke softly, though the soul could hear every word.

"Being slaughtered for the family is a gift. But before the giving, there is a claiming. Do you understand?"

The brother nodded, his throat bobbing. "Yes, Dad."

"I need to mark you. So that when the knife comes, you know whose hand holds it. You know whose love cuts you open."

The brother's voice was barely a whisper. "I know. I want that."

Dad stripped the brother's clothes off, piece by piece—shirt, pants, underwear. The boy stood pale and trembling but not from fear. His fists were clenched, his breath shallow. Dad pushed him gently onto the bed, onto his stomach. The brother buried his face in the pillow, his back rising and falling.

"Don't hold back," Dad said. "Let me hear you."

The soul watched from the ceiling as Dad lowered himself, as his hand pressed against the brother's spine, as the boy gasped and then cried out—not in pain, but in release. The sound was raw, almost joyful. The brother's fingers dug into the sheets, and his voice broke into sobs and laughter as Dad took him, claimed him, made him part of the preparation.

When it was over, Dad lay beside him, stroking his hair. The brother's face was wet with tears, but he was smiling.

"Thank you," the brother whispered.

Dad kissed his forehead. "Next year. You'll be beautiful."

They lay together for a few moments, catching their breath. Then Dad stood, pulled his pants up, and held out his hand. The brother took it, naked, and walked back to the living room.

Mom saw them and laughed—a warm, full laugh. "Look at you. You've been blessed."

The younger children giggled. The littlest one pointed. "Big brother is red!"

The brother blushed but smiled. He didn't reach for clothes. He sat down on the couch, bare, and let them see him. Let them know what he would become.

Dad came out and stood behind Mom, his hands on her shoulders. He looked around the room—the laughing children, the empty plates, the lingering scent of the feast—and he laughed too.

"To next year," he said.

"To next year," they all echoed, and the laughter swelled, filling the house, rising up to the basement where the skulls grinned in the dark, and up to the ceiling where Xiaoyu's soul smiled and felt, for the first time, truly complete.