The hunger

[Not sure about this post. I have been trying to nudge my way back into fiction, but it just doesn’t seem to be happening (at least, not in the way I expected it to)… Methinks it makes for clunky reading. But hey, it can only get better when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, right?]

Nothing can stop the descent into the abyss. You lingered on the edge, tentatively looking into the darkness. You wanted to tear your eyes away, as people do when a terrible accident unfolds before them, yet a macabre fascination drew you in. It pulled you too far over the edge, and down you went.

The drop continues. Is it gravity? Does gravity even exist in that realm where lost souls infinitely wander and sink towards nothingness? Or perhaps it is magnetism – after all, opposites attract, and thus the purest have the greatest fall.

Mouth gapes, a black hollow rasping and gasping for air. Chest rises and falls, trying to fill stale lungs with fresh oxygen. Eyes snap open. Light blinds you. Hand against the forehead, you squint and drag yourself into a sitting position.

Still alive, then.

Yet there is something odd about the mouth. It feels dry and awkward. The tongue wipes saliva over the lips and teeth. Now you discover the slightest yet unmistakable shift in the mouth’s architecture: the canines on both the lower and upper have elongated slightly. Like an animal.

A newly devised creature, you stagger and stumble, bumbling, to your feet. Bewildered, you look around. Bodies everywhere, drenched in blood. Even the ground has turned red with it.

You know you should feel something – perhaps horror, surprise, disgust – yet in its place is an emptiness. The blood calls to you.

And a hunger rises within.


“When I escaped, I didn’t feel like I got away”…

It happened so quickly. It only took a few brief exchanges for the fury to build behind his eyes and in his throat. His jaw tightened as he used minimal energy to reply to the person in front of him, keeping answers short and simple. He didn’t feel like talking, didn’t feel like being talked to, yet this particular creature seemed blissfully ignorant of this. Such a small, insignificant thing, not even requiring much effort on his part, so why did it make him so angry? He knew it was stupid to be furious about someone trying to be nice to him, which only frustrated and infuriated him further. Obviously this person was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Deep down, he knew what it was all about. Her. It was about the bright smile, the deceitful, mesmerising eyes and the soft skin. How could she do that to him? She made him care, let him surrender, and then it was all taken away. How?

Bitterly, he let out a sigh.

He had the answer to these questions. He’d given in to her completely. They melted together like wax before a candle’s heat. And then his pride stepped in, reminding him not to grovel before her as a pilgrim would before a god. A good defence mechanism, but it couldn’t protect him from the solitude. When they finally tore apart from each other, a large chunk of him stayed with her, leaving a gaping hole. It wasn’t all her fault, and it wasn’t all his fault either. It just didn’t work. He didn’t know how to make it work when he realised he wanted it to.

Thus anger clicked into place, usurping naivety’s throne. So he was angry almost all the time. Not to say he didn’t experience other emotions, but it lurked there, under the surface, a glowing ember bursting into a roaring fire within seconds. Wrath was the instant, aggressive response when someone questioned or doubted him or even doted over him. He just wanted to be left alone with his guilt, his rage and his writing, but people insisted on being nice to him. What’s more, the memories persisted, despite his attempts to turn his thoughts away from it all. He could run and hide from everyone, but he couldn’t run from himself.