I Really Need To Stop Eating My Wife’s Hamburgers – By MissBrainProblems

Recently, my wife has started making me hamburgers for dinner. And by that, I mean that she’s been making me hamburgers almost every night for the past month. At first, I thought it was kind of charming. Home-made hamburgers, home-made up to her grinding the beef herself in a little grinder she bought some time ago but never had the chance to really use. After the fourth night in a row of hamburgers, though, it quickly stopped being quite so charming. I brought it up with her that eating hamburgers this often can’t be healthy, but she simply waved my concern away, telling me that she made sure to get the healthiest cuts of beef for us. Of course, the plain fact of the matter was that, after two weeks of eating nothing but hamburgers had passed, I was getting very, very tired of it.


Regardless, though, my wife seemed to enjoy it. She was discovering new and creative ways to make the hamburgers every night, and even if I got tired of it after a short while, she at least managed to make each hamburger dinner different in smaller or in larger ways. I couldn’t deny that it was pretty good tasting meat, too, so it at least had that going for it. Even though I had my issues with it, then, I let my wife make hamburgers as much as she pleased, especially since I hadn’t seen her this excited for something she was doing in quite a long time.

I should get something out of the way right now, though. For as long as I’ve known my wife – going on about five years now – I’ve never seen her get seriously injured. She might slice her finger while chopping vegetables, or she might bang her arm or leg against something really hard, but I’ve never seen any real sign of those things having happened an hour or two afterwards. She always puts a bandage or some kind of ice compression pad on the injury, of course, but I’ve always found it strange how I can’t see any cut or bruisers by the end of the day.

By the time I get home from work, the hamburgers are usually already made – if not the whole meal, then the patty itself is formed up and cooking on the grill. I managed to get off work early, today, and I decided to come home and surprise my wife, and maybe help her out with the dinner if I could. After all, it wasn’t fair that she had to make the hamburgers all by herself every night, and maybe if I helped cook them, I could learn to love them as much as she did, herself.

I think you might see where this is going, by now.

Since I wanted to surprise her, I made sure to park my car a few houses down the road so that she wouldn’t hear me pull into the driveway. I quietly walked up to the house, and peeked in through one of the front windows that looks side-long into the kitchen. As I did, I saw something that made my stomach churn, and it took every ounce of self-control I had to not hurl right there on the lawn.

My wife was shoving her own hand and lower arm into the meat grinder, barely wincing as her flesh was ground into strings of meat that strung themselves out onto the plate in front of the grinder. Blood splattered up a bit, but it looked like she had some sort of towels or something to keep it from flying all over the place. I suppose I would have suspected something the first night if I came back to my kitchen covered in blood. Either way, I watched in horror as she continued to push her limb into the machine, losing more and more of her body as she went. Eventually, she pulled her arm out, and what I saw next was, perhaps, even more horrifying. Right there, before my eyes, her arm started to grow back. In less than a minute, everything was right back to what I was used to: A perfectly normal arm and hand, not looking at all like it had just been put through a meat grinder. And yet, the ground “beef” was still there on the plate, the “beef” that I knew would be cooked up into the hamburgers both her and myself would eat later on for dinner.

I must have stepped on a branch or something, because my wife twirled around to look through the window in my direction. I think that I had managed to duck out of the way quickly enough that she didn’t see me, but I didn’t take any chances, and quickly retreated back to my car. I drove the opposite way from my house, figuring that I could take refuge at a coffee shop or some such until the time that I normally get back home.

I’m so confused. I want to believe that maybe I was just imagining it. That maybe she was just putting normal cow meat into the grinder, and I just couldn’t see properly at the angle I was looking in from. But her arm. Her hand. I saw them, missing, a bloody, mutilated stump where the grinder had stopped. And I saw them grow back, grow back and looking like nothing had ever happened. It must have happened. There’s no way it didn’t. The image was too vivid, too ingrained in my head for it to not have been real.

It’s been about an hour now. I’m supposed to be back for dinner soon. I’m not sure that I can eat those hamburgers tonight.

At the same time, though, I’m worried about my wife. I don’t want her to think that I don’t like her cooking.