The Glutton

(TW: Gore/Injury)

She hungers for books like a starving dog. The library makes her salivate; the ache in her stomach groans for ink. So many choices at her disposal, rows upon rows of still lives for the taking. She shivers at the possibilities. The books cannot refuse the act of being eaten, nor can they say a word of protest at her audacity. She snatches a spine of gleaming gold lettering from its snug place on the shelf. Her lips are wet as she feels the weight of it in her hands. Bringing it up to her wide-open mouth, she licks a slow, slobbering stripe over the cover. It tastes fresh yet tart, like ripe limes dunked in sugar cane liquor. She opens it and rips outs the pages, shoving the inked paper down her throat. Her heartbeat quickens as she swallows. The ink tastes of genuine laughter, of shared stories, of one lonely person finding kinship in another. The pages are swallowed in fistfuls until the book is a hollow shell. Its cover is battered as she scrapes away its gilded title with her teeth. She tosses it away once there is nothing left to chew.

The next to be eaten is a simpler thing. Its cover is tan, its title, a dull brown Times New Roman font. It tastes of spring sunshine and blueberry pie, of whispered questions and a tentative kiss. Tears prick at her eyes as these pages go down her gullet. They settle in her stomach and twist as they are broken down by acid. She grabs another book and nearly chokes. It tastes of clean linen, warm skin, and whipped cream. It sits inside her all wrong, makes her want to vomit. She eats it anyway. Eats and eats and eats. The library is a slaughterhouse with books reduced to skin and bones. Their carcasses lie in piles around her feet, limp and sprawling like dead birds. Tears flow down her face at the sight, dripping across the cluttered floor. Against her stuttering sobs, her throat tightens, forcing her to cough up her biggest bite yet. She weeps as she scoops the wad of soggy pages into her palms. They had tasted like city lights, shared food, and the tight squeeze of comforting arms wrapped around her ravenous body. Taking a gasping breath, she forces the pages into her. They had tasted like home. But they now taste like bile as she swallows them back down.

Further within the library, the books begin to have a burnt sugar flavor, a gritty, ashy essence that lingers. It sours the spit that slips down her chin as she chomps on a green leather spine. Too stubborn to be overtaken by the ghastly aftertaste, she pulls all her focus toward the hint of toasted almonds hidden beneath it. Leather grinds between her teeth as the flavor expands to the feeling of fingers holding her own. The taste goes away as soon as it reaches her stomach. She grabs for another book. Burnt sugar and nothing more. She grabs for another, then another. Sugar turns to spent firewood, spent firewood becomes cold charcoal. She slumps down, crying salt that burns down her cheeks. Hunger gnaws at her abdomen, threatening to break her skin. Pulling herself forward, she grasps a book with blue lettering. Charcoal dust pours into her lungs as she bites into it. The black powder embeds itself into her chest, making her insides rattle with black mucus. Her head pounds as ink, pulp, and leather spew onto the floor. She shrieks as the mess spills out of her, clawing for what is left of the books and stuffing them back inside. But the pages no longer taste like anything.

With a sob, she draws her limbs toward her, folding her arms across her front. Empty shelves creak and groan as she strains against her howling belly. Shutting her eyes, she tries to remember the flavors she had consumed: the limes, the sunshine, the laughter, the pie, the linens, the city, the warmth, the cream, the kiss. They come back to her in spoonfuls, small morsels of delight. Drool hangs from her slack jaw in silvery ropes. Within the darkness behind her eyelids, she can sense the clatter of utensils cutting the books into beautiful pieces, preparing them just for her. Voice all but spent from crying, she calls out to be fed. Her eyes are still shut. She is far too frightened to open them, afraid that the hand which feeds her will draw away if she looks. Opening her mouth as she wide as she can, she awaits her final meal.

Her breath tastes rancid as she inhales stale air.

Wheezing, she grips onto a bookshelf and hauls her legs to stand. The sharp agony of pointed nails scratches from within her. At her hip, something beneath her skin begins to stretch, wriggling and tittering, until her flesh gives to the pressure. A fledgling shape bursts out into the open. It drops with a wet thump and shakes the gore from its fur. With little, pink hands, it wipes its snout and ears. Her vision grows hot when it sluggishly attempts to skitter away. Snatching it up, she listens to it squeal. Her breath quickens as she raises its squirming body to her face. It is a plump thing, with a rounded head and fat torso. Her grip squeezes tighter. It lets out a feeble squeak as it is consumed. A medley of rust, insomnia, insulin, and disease. It slides in, all fur and rot, and comes back out of the wound on her side, splatting across what is left of a fragmented book.

She hungers for books like a starving dog. Like a mutt, she drops to all fours within the library, crawling, biting, wanting more to eat. She tastes of emptiness, of tunnels and caverns and dark well water. So many choices at her disposal, strewn around, chewed up and abused. She will never feel satisfied. She will never stop eating.