Hunger

This is my entry for a Halloween competition being run on the Black Library Bolthole. The theme is horror, and had to include a "traditional monster" in some shape or form. As always I've tried to put my own, somewhat twisted spin on it!

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I can still taste them. The memory is always with me now, driving me on, compelling me to feed again, to once more feel that rush of sensation that was like nothing I had ever experienced before. The warmth of the flesh in my mouth as my teeth scraped against the taut, resistant skin. The tension suddenly released as they stabbed deep, followed swiftly by the hot rush of blood filling my mouth, my heart pounding as I gulped it down, matching the surges of liquid from the sundered flesh beat for delicious beat. The feeding itself; at once seeming to take an eternity yet over in scant minutes. The sharp, harsh crack of snapping bone and the sweetness of the marrow sucked from within its brittle shell.

I remember it, every moment of every day of what has now become my existence. Each time I feed now it seems to add to the richness of that memory, that precious moment when I first gave in to the desires raging within me and feasted. My need to replicate it is what drives me now; my disappointment at the end of each meal that fails to match the ecstasy of the first grows stronger every time. Yet I will not stop trying; I cannot stop. It is what I am now.

By day I slumber and dream of the hunt and the feasting that follows. They are glorious dreams, and when I awaken I find that they have always raised the hunger that is constantly within me to new heights of desire. I only move now when darkness has fallen and my senses are heightened. It is more comfortable that way, because I know it is my time. The time of the predator. I rove through the forest, killing whatever I can catch, but never straying too far from the village. It is my prime feeding ground, my territory. In the beginning I tried to stay away, only venturing there when the moons waxed full, but that was foolishness, some kind of lingering caution, an attachment to what I was. Now I go there far more often, driven by the need for the kind of flesh that I can find nowhere else within this vast, lonely forest.

They try to stop me. Once that angered me, but with time I have come to realise that they only do what their instincts drive them to. In that respect alone are they similar to me. The prey will always attempt to escape or defeat the predator. The predator always seeks to feed. It is the way of things.

They try, but they fail. I am too fast now, too strong. Their arrows miss, and even when they pierce my skin the wounds they cause heal swiftly. Only their sticks that bark fire can hurt me badly. I know they have a name, and that I knew what it is, but that knowledge has been lost to me. It does not matter. It is enough that I remember their effects, the danger they pose to me. I was once hurt by one of the sticks. It took me three full days to heal; three days with nothing to eat. The pain of my wounds was nothing compared to the hunger that gnawed inside my belly then.

I see a light in the distance. For a moment I think that the night is ending, that I must return to my lair to sleep until darkness falls again, but no. It is too soon, and the light is coming from the wrong direction. Instinctively I drop lower and stalk closer, moving between the trees in near-perfect silence. All my senses are fixed on that light, striving to discern what it is.

It flickers unevenly, sometimes dimming for long moments before brightening again. It moves, I realise that much, and sidestep quickly into deeper cover. It is heading this way. What is this strangeness? The hair on the back of my neck rises, and only the hunger burning within me keeps me from disappearing into the forest.

It draws closer, and now I can hear them. The tramping of dozens of feet, crushing sticks and sweeping dead leaves aside with every clumsy step. The grumbling, erratic sound of prey-speech. The light is not one but many, I see that now, flickering flame held atop raised sticks. Beneath the overpowering smell of burning I catch their scent; dirt, sweat and flesh. I feel the blood surge through me and saliva fills my mouth. It is all I can do to keep myself from attacking, dragging them down one by one and sinking my teeth into their flesh. Only the wrongness of the situation holds me back. Prey do not behave this way.

I see that some of them carry the sticks that bark fire, and only then do I realise what is going on. The prey are hunting me. This is not right; this is not how things should be. Prey exists to be hunted, not to hunt! They are meat! Without thinking I step out into the open, my teeth bared. They should know their place!

It takes a few moments for their pitiful senses to detect me, then cries of alarm sound throughout the herd. Those holding them lift their fire-sticks, and I raise my arms in response but do not move. My gaze is fixed on one of the prey, standing at the front. Recognition glimmers in my mind. Somewhere deep within me I know this one, the name for it. It comes to me after a moment. Husband. I cannot remember what the word means.

Husband stares at my face. No, not that. My raised arms. At first I think it is the fright of prey that sees the means of its own death, but then my gaze turns upwards, and I realise that it looks at what hangs from my arms. I lower my limbs slowly, and watch his eyes follow. It sees them. Does it understand?

Can it know what I remember? The wondrous fulfilment of that first meal, the sensation like nothing I had felt before or since? That is why I keep them; one scrap of cloth wound around each wrist. Their bright vivid colours are almost obscured now by dirt and blood. But that does not matter. I still remember. Two ribbons, for the two young prey I first devoured.

Does it understand? I look at husband, and see nothing but ignorant revulsion look back. I growl, low and deep, and the prey react. Those carrying fire-sticks push forward, another drags husband back into the centre of the herd, ignoring his howling. They are many. I should flee, but I do not. The hunger is too great now. I spread my arms wide and charge them.

They scream and shout in fear. The sticks bark fire, and I feel impacts blossom all over my body, blood oozing from the rents in my skin. I do not stop, I barely even slow. My wounds do not matter. My pain does not matter. Nothing does.

Nothing but my hunger.