Hidden Hunger

Content Warning: This story contains abduction, sexual‑violence themes, and physical violence.

The shadows covered him. A chilly breeze made his nose tingle.

Silence.

Cars passed without seeing him. He did not exist to them, and they did not matter to him. The building across the street was where he focused.

The door swung open. A light sparked and shone, striking his eyes. A tall woman emerged, turned back, smiled, and waved. She giggled again.

He shook his head and whispered, “You’ll stop laughing soon.”

As she crossed the street, he glanced down at the gold band on his finger. He had promised to keep it on. The glint triggered a memory.

“Would you like to come over and have a drink with me?” She looked at his ring and said, “No, I don’t date married men.” “It’s just a drink.” She and her friends giggled. “No. Thank you.” As he stayed there, she met his eyes, pursed her lips, shook her head, and said sternly, “I said no thank you.”

He returned to the table. Their laughter followed him. The laughter sent tingles down his spine, making him shiver. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist as he retreated to the jukebox, pretending to study the songs. Later, he returned to a different table, stealing glances whenever he could.

As the man next to him said goodbye to his friend, he looked at the woman. She was chatting with the bartender. He positioned himself behind the fellow.

Once outside, he stepped in the opposite direction but circled back when the scene was clear. He looped around a few more times, eyes darting to the bar, until he found his spot in the alley.

Now she approached. His breath stopped; he didn’t move, not even blink. He heard his heart beating in perfect rhythm with her steps. He couldn’t see her now, but her footsteps rang in his ears. Click, beat, clack, beat, click, beat — her shoes and his heart in rhythm.

Her shadow appeared first. As she passed the corner, his hands shot out — one covering her mouth with a cloth, the other wrapping around her and pulling her into his grasp.

As she went limp, he lifted her like a bride and carried her down the street. The darkness hid his car. With a click, a light came on, guiding him. He placed her on the back seat with a squeak.

The door slammed. He sat behind the wheel and clicked the radio on. No music — instead, a voice crackled: “Dispatch all clear on 64th Street; downtown clear because of the game.”

He smirked at the radio. “It doesn’t matter if you spot the plates — this car’s not mine, and neither is the name on the license.” As he heard more chatter, he nodded and turned the key. The engine shuddered to life.

A flick and the headlights glowed, revealing the alley. Overflowing trash bins lined the walls. At the crossroads, a car’s hum passed.

He crept forward. At the corner, he glanced once, then floored it. The car flared, wheels squealing. The lights of the city smeared as he drove until the city faded. Then vanished.

As he drove along, he muttered to himself, “And a backtrack to just be sure.”

Some rumbles and thumps in the road behind him shook the car. It skidded to a stop. The brown cabin stared back at him from the darkness. He fixed his eyes on the unlit windows.

He grinned and jogged to the front door. He grabbed a folding chair and propped it under the knob. A switch flipped, revealing a green couch and recliner patched with threads. In the corner, an avocado‑green refrigerator and stove stood.

He paused on the porch, nose wrinkling at a scent he couldn’t place. He ignored it.

He sprinted toward the back door. His hand hovered at the latch. Then he opened it.

With a grunt, he pulled her out and dumped her on the ground. Then he lifted her again, bridal‑style, and crossed the threshold, whistling his favorite tune.

Instead of heading toward the doors straight ahead, he rounded the couch. An opening in the floor revealed stairs descending into the darkness.

“Lights on.” A bulb flickered to life below.

He carried her down. A bed stood against the wall, its middle sunken. The mattress, stained, bare, frayed, with fluff sticking out, waited for him.

He placed her on it, wiped his brow, and snapped the cuffs around her wrists and ankles.

He climbed back up, grabbed the hatch handle, and pulled it shut above him as he stepped down, sealing the world above away.

A nightstand held a large, old‑fashioned camera with a flashbulb. Above it, a corkboard. Photographs of women pinned in rows.

“Well, my sweet, you’ll be lucky number thirteen. My favorite number. And they’ve only found four of them.”

His eyes hovered over a news clipping. “Number Four!” the headline screamed. Below it: “Thorn serial rapist and killer still at large.”

He reviewed the images. He licked his lips, sliding his hand across the pictures. “They won’t catch me. Ever. And my sweet, you will always be mine.”

He lifted the camera, looked at her face through the lens. Her features glowed for a moment.

He set the camera down and patted it. “Later. Later.”

Back at the bed. “Well, my sweet, it’s time I woke you up.”

A bottle of water and a silver scalpel sat on the table. He opened the bottle, took a drink, gargled, then leaned down.

He kissed her and pushed the remaining water into her mouth.

She sputtered and gasped. Her eyes snapped open, darting around. When they found the scalpel, they widened.

“Hello, my sweet,” Thorn said.

She turned to him, eyes narrowing. “Have we met before?”

He frowned. “Why aren’t you screaming? They always scream.”

She studied him calmly. “Why would I scream? And yes — we met at the bar. You asked me out.”

He clicked his tongue. “You said no.”

She snorted. “Is that what this is about? I said no? Women are allowed to say no.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Why are you calm?”

“There’s no reason to be afraid.”

His face flushed. He slammed the table, spraying water.

“Maybe if I introduce myself and show you my treasures, you’ll scream. I like it when they scream.”

“That’s nice to know.”

He grabbed her head and twisted it towards the wall. “You’re going to be number thirteen. Look at that headline. They don’t know about the others. And maybe they’ll never find you.”

“Oh, are you going to tattoo a thorn on my head after you fiddle with me like the others?” She burst out laughing.

“Stop laughing!” he shouted. “Start screaming, or I’ll make you scream.”

“If I scream, will you let me go?”

“You’re going to die.”

She yawned. “No. And I’m bored with this.”

She rubbed her sleeve. A metallic flash gleamed. Click. One cuff popped open.

His heart skipped.

She unlocked the other one. His heart stopped.

“That wasn’t a cuff link,” she said.

He stepped back, hand in his hair. “I can take that away easily enough.”

Her hand flashed toward the table.

His eyes widened. He lunged.

Too late.

The scalpel’s point hit his groin.

He collapsed, both hands clutching himself. His scream tore out of him.

During a hitching breath, he heard her say, “You wanted to hear a female screaming — so why not you?”

He reached for her, eyes watering.

She pulled back and laughed. “Well, Mr. Thorn Tattoo, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. And by the way — I’m Rose. And it’s time to clip my thorn.”

The scalpel sliced across his throat. Warm blood spilled down his neck. The last thing he heard before everything went dark was laughter.