“I’m desperate for flesh. My teeth haven’t bitten down on skin, sweet muscle, flesh and bone, for weeks. Or minutes. Maybe centuries. Time means little to me at this point, seconds and instances seem to crawl past and yet centuries take less than moments to pass by me. I live sporadically you could say, what is up is down, right is wrong and love is hate. That last part is important. Or not. In my life nothing is constant – only the need to bite. Relationships, fashions and countries are all fleeting – transient at best, and I exist above them. In my conceit I am the closest thing to a god that any human will ever experience. Not immortal, but unmortal. The humans cannot seem to get even the simplest things right anymore, their words for my kind are not the only travesty they take as fact. I am lucky for that, the myths are so far down the wrong path that they could never recognize me as one of them. I am an unlikely candidate for a god I suppose, in their eyes. I am nothing sparkling or bright or beautiful. What I am is ordinary. Ordinary and invisible, I am the embodied equivalent of wallpaper. You thought my ordinary, didn’t you? Now you know better my Madonna. Normally you see me and then instantly forget me. But I never forget you. Although memory is not the word for it either. A catalogue of meals, faces jumbled into a single vernacular: you are my food.
Which brings me back to the hunger. The all consuming, maddening, dry scratching hunger that screams and pounds through my headlikeaviceeveryminuteofthedayscreamingscreamingforwethotsilkyredblood.
But I forget myself and grow excited, how unseemly.
May I take a minute?
The blood, yes. I crave it. Not just the blood itself but the wrenched screams, the flesh, rend from their bodies, soft and supple in my mouth as I chew it into meat. The bones too, I crack and feast on. I devour every part of the carcass, carnivorous and lusting for the flesh as I am. I eat their souls. I savour the thickening screams, gurgling through bloodied throats, and I relish their struggles to the end. The wild battle for life is the sweetest part and I can replay it over in my head again and again, like a warm blanket in the cold of forever.
Let no one tell you that forever is not cold. Forever is not a lover that will keep you warm and embrace you through the night, no, no. Forever will rip you to shreds, take everything from you day by day. But I would have forever over living. I remember living. Living every day was a blur of pain: hurting and emotions, feelings that ran rampant through your body, tearing you from the inside. Now I feel nothing. Except the hunger. I always feel the hunger. It is a monster that wears my body, and my life is centred on sating the beast beneath my skin.
I have developed affections to sate the hunger – a sick sort of puppetry, facade of humanity. I wear shirts that hide my over pronounced spine and emaciated frame. I blink, and shuffle and fidget like the humans – I have learned they find the still of death unsettling. And I have learned the languages of modern society, though they feel foreign on my tongue. But it is all a device so that I can eat. A deadly predator that will do anything to eat.
Nothing could describe the sweet, sultry flavour on your tongue of marrow and cracking bone grinding against your teeth. But I tease you. Your sweat is intoxicating, it smells like sick fear and certainty – you know what is coming then? Unfortunately for you, whores don’t get second chances. And you are a whore my Madonna, yes? But I will save you. You will most likely not care for it, but I will rend you limb from limb and devour you, and in the end it will be a gift to you. Because living is pain, and no matter what I am about to do to you, it couldn’t hurt as much as living. Although I will certainly give it my best shot.”
A sickening crunch, a muffled scream and horrid sound of a wild animal feasting, and it is over.