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It started with a craving.
Elliot had never really liked cheese. Not in a passionate way. He ate it like anyone else—on crackers, in sandwiches, sprinkled on pasta. But one night, after a fight with his sister about nothing in particular, he opened the fridge, found a block of sharp cheddar, and bit into it like it was an apple.
The salt, the fat, the tang—it settled something in him.
He finished the whole block. Didn’t even remember chewing.
The next morning, he bought more. Brie, gouda, blue, a wedge of something labeled French Cave-Aged Tomme that cost nearly thirty bucks. He devoured them in silence, barely breathing, like he was starving for something his body had been denied.
That week, he stopped showing up to work.
His texts became fragmented. One said: "milk turned solid is memory made flesh."
His sister came by. The apartment smelled like sweat and curd. She found yellow smears on the walls, empty wrappers on the floor, cheese knives in the sink, coated in something that looked like oil and skin.
He told her not to worry. Said he was close to understanding.
The smell got worse.
He stopped bathing. His skin looked waxy, bloated, like the rind of something overripe. He started talking about veins—how cheese had them too. How he could feel his shifting.
Then one night, the neighbors called in a noise complaint. When police broke the door, they found Elliot on the kitchen floor, curled in a nest of parmesan shavings, gnawing at his own fingers. Smiling.
There were claw marks on the fridge door.
He’s in a facility now. Doesn’t speak much. But sometimes he hums.
And sometimes—quietly—he whispers something no one can quite make out.
But the nurses say it sounds like:
"You are what you eat."