The Game They Called Hunger

Content Warning: Includes depictions of hunger, food insecurity, class-based violence, and scenes of induced vomiting.

The smell reached him before the door fully opened. Roasted meat. Butter browning in copper pans. Something sweet caramelizing in a distant kitchen. Alex’s mouth flooded. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and now his body was making its demands known. His stomach tightened with an ache he struggled to hide.

The parlor room unfolded before him in warm amber light, cast by crystal chandeliers. Guests moved through the glow in clusters of silk and pearl, their laughter rising and falling in waves. Alex recognized the rhythm. He’d practiced it himself, teaching his face the particular looseness of someone who belonged at parties like this one.

The door closed behind him, sealing the November cold. For a moment Alex simply stood there, breathing it in. The warmth. The sheer scale of it all. He steadied his hands, arranged his face into the smile he’d rehearsed, then moved deeper into the crowd.

He found an opening near the fireplace where a cluster of guests stood with wine glasses that caught the light like captured stars. Alex positioned himself at the edge of their circle, nodding along to a conversation about summer homes, contributing nothing but the appearance of easy agreement. His stomach growled, loud enough that he felt heat rise to his cheeks.

An older woman turned towards him. He particularly liked the gold filigree of her mask, delicate as lace, and a shimmer that set it apart from the rest. She’d heard.

“You’ve come prepared, I hear.” The corners of her mouth curved upwards. “Is this your first Consumption, child?”

Alex nodded.

“Your family must be proud.”

“My mother had to seat herself when she read the invitation aloud.” He paused, then added, “She’s attending Consumption at the Mayer’s estate this evening.

The woman’s posture shifted, her shoulders drawing back seemingly impressed. “My, my. What an honor to have you with us for your first.”

“It’s my invitation here tonight that I’m truly grateful for, ma’am.”

She nodded, approving, and turned back towards the room. He’d said the right words.

I passed.

Crystal tinkling silenced the room. A servant stood at the far doorway, striking a small bell with practiced rhythm.

“Your gracious host is humbled by your attendance and invites you to proceed into the dining room for the main event.”

Alex’s stomach clenched again, harder this time, his hunger mingling with anxiety and anticipation.

Dinner.

He thought of his mother’s last moments before she died. She had worked hard for this. They both had. And now here he was, finally stepping into the world she’d always told him he deserved.

I made it.

The crowd began filtering toward the doorway, and Alex fell into step alongside the older woman. They moved in small, shuffling increments through the bottleneck of the doorway. The hallway beyond was lined with immaculate red and gold wallpaper, polished dark wood paneling along the bottom. As they walked, the smells grew. Roasted meats, wine reductions, herb-crusted somethings. His mouth watered.

The dining room doors stood open, spilling the dancing golden light of candles, real candles, into the hall.

Alex stepped through.

And stopped.

* * *

A table stretched the length of the dining room, draped in white linen, place settings gleaming at every seat. But to his surprise, the center held no food. No platters or towering arrangements. Just empty white cloth and, spaced evenly along the table, five large glass boxes.

Inside each one, a figure. Still. Watching.

Alex’s step faltered. He felt the crowd flowing around him, guests finding their seats. He made himself move again. This was the world of the Sated. Refined. Opulent. Incomprehensible to outsiders. He was here to learn and to partake, not to judge.

He found his place card near the table’s middle. Not among the glittering guests at the head, but not relegated to the far end either. Middling. Appropriate for a first time. The figure within the nearest glass box hunched in the corner, knees drawn up, staring at the empty cloth. They avoided looking at the guests. Alex looked away, avoiding them in return.

They’re lucky to be so close to all this. They should show more gratitude.

“Mr. Alex Mercer.”

His eyes shot up as he spun on his heels. The Host stood behind him, resplendent in a burgundy jacket, his smile warm and wide. He grasped Alex’s shoulder like an old friend.

“I’m touched you chose to join us for your first Consumption,” whispers of approval rippled through the guests nearby.

Alex’s throat tightened, “Thank you sir. I’m honored to have been invited.”

“Honor is earned, Alex. And you’ve earned your place at this table, haven’t you?” he paused long enough for Alex to nod. “Then enjoy yourself tonight. That’s all I ask.” He moved on quickly, leaving Alex flushed with something that made him giddy. He collected his wits, and assumed a stoic posture as he waited by his chair.

When every guest had been greeted, the Host raised his glass at the head of the table.

“Tonight we celebrate abundance, community, and the virtue of making room for God’s bounty.” The crowd responded with a mix of responses. “First, we feast.” He continued, “Then, we share.” He gestures to the glass cages. “As always, you may leave offerings as you dine at the center of the table. Our community’s most vulnerable will join us during our final course. But that joy comes later. For now, let’s eat.”

The guests applauded. Alex clapped along, eager, then took his seat with the rest.

Servants emerged through side doors with the first course.

* * *

The first course was hors d’oeuvres. Real meat, pink, glistening and thinly sliced arranged on a small bed of micro greens perched atop crusty bread. In an attempt to make it last, he cut his piece and placed half on his tongue and had to close his eyes against the rush of it. Salt. Fat. Butter. Textures he’d forgotten existed. He chewed slowly, letting it last, and when he swallowed he felt the knot in his stomach loosen.

As he finished the second half of his bite sized bit of culinary heaven, to his delight a server replaced it with another. This one he dissected, removing the greens, and spearing the meat to carry it alone to his tongue so he could save the cool iron-rich juices without having to share them with the crusty bread.

Another was placed before him.

I deserve this. I am worthy.

Around him, conversation flowed. A man across the table gestured with his wine, waxing on about the troubles of younger generations. “The problem, you see, is discipline really. People refuse to work nowadays. Then, they complain when the system doesn’t reward them.”

“Exactly,” a woman agreed. “They want things handed to them. No ambition. No grit, as my husband calls it. Then they wonder how they end up…” she gestures vaguely towards the glass boxes.

Alex nodded along in silent agreement, intentionally avoiding looking at the figure in the box. A small pile of rejected food bits piling up along the edges of his plate.

As the course ended, guests deposited their scraps into the center of the table, crusty bread, bits of meat, and uneaten garnishes accumulated on the white cloth. The figures in the boxes watched. Alex added his own scraps, which included one still fully assembled bite that he carefully set atop his neat pile. He measured his own offering against the piles in front of others, nestling smugly into the plush backing of his chair. Satisfied with the generous size of his offering. He smiled proudly at the caged figure, but they didn’t return his gaze.

Stubborn ingrate.

An amuse-bouche course followed by the soup course, which came and went. Then a salad, bright and crisp, dressed in something creamy that Alex licked from his fork. By the appetiser course, his stomach was beginning to protest, a dull pressure building beneath his ribs, but everyone else was still eating. So he too kept pace. The mound in the center of the table grew into a mess of scraps and wilted greens.

The pressure in his stomach sharpened. He shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but there was nowhere for the fullness to go. Around him guests laughed and reached for more wine. The figure in the glass box had moved, their forehead now pressed against the glass as they stared into the growing pile of scraps around them.

The Host rose with his glass prompting a wave of silence. “To the abundance of our great nation, and those wise enough to seize it! We have reached the moment where we must make room for the bounty afforded to us by God’s grace alone.” His smile was warm and paternal as guests murmured their praise. “Please, make your way to the purging areas. We will reconvene shortly for the main course.”

Around him, guests rose from their seats.

* * *

Alex hung back, following other guests making their way to a narrow table along the wall. He watched a woman accept a bowl, swallow a pill, then bend gracefully over the porcelain as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

A servant offered him a bowl. Then a small red pill from a silver dish. Alex held it in his palm. Around him, the sound of retching had already begun, a wet chorus rising up from the edges of the room.

He swallowed the pill dry. It worked fast. His stomach seized, and then he was vomiting. His body expelled everything he’d just eaten in violent heaves.

This is awful.

His eyes stinging with tears. Throat burning as he gripped the edges of his bowl.

When it was over, he straightened slowly, wiping his mouth with a cloth offered to him by a nearby servant. The pressure beneath his ribs was gone now. His stomach felt hollow again, scraped clean, and despite everything, there was relief in that.

Around him, guests chatted and laughed as if nothing unusual was happening. A woman dabbed her lips then complimented another’s earrings. Two men discussed a golfing trip. The servants moved between them, collecting bowls quietly and efficiently.

The Host’s voice caught everyone’s attention once more, “See how we have overcome our physical limitations? The body is a vessel, my dear neighbors. And it is we who decide what it holds. Let us continue our feast.”

Alex thought to himself as he returned to his seat.

The Romans did this. This is living history. Culture. This is what thriving looks like for the real men and women of civilized society.

The servants carried the bowls from the room. Fresh wine was poured. The figures in glass boxes remained motionless, watching as the servants returned to the room with the main course.

* * *

The fish arrived on beds of herbs, flesh flaking white atop crispy golden browned skin. Alex ate without hesitation now. His stomach was empty and ready.

As the wine flowed freely, conversation came easier to him. Laughter rose from his throat before he could think to perform it. A woman complimented a lemon sorbet that debuted between the fish and the chicken course.

Another man asked Alex’s opinion on the spicy braised short rib. Alex answered, gestured, and smiled.

I belong here.

He could feel the rightness settling into his bones.

Several courses later, and the cheese was creamy and soft, paired with nuts, honey, and dried fruits. The mound in the center had grown substantial now, scraps of bones, gristle, and dry cuts of cheese rind accumulated around the glass boxes. The figures inside still watched, eyes hollow. One had even begun to drool. Allowing it to drip onto their knee before pooling on the table beneath them.

The conversation at the table had grown loose and honest. A man pointed a fork towards the drooling centerpiece between bites. “I’ll say it again. The real problem is they think they deserve everything. Participation trophies killed work ethic. Look at ‘em. Waiting to be fed like animals.”

“It’s true,” another agreed, “Thank god there are people willing to share generously with them. But, may I be frank? I think it’s more than they deserve.”

Alex heard himself speak. “Some are just born lazier than others.”

The comment earned him a laugh from the table around him as heads nodded in agreement.

“If they’d just do as they are told,” he pushed further, “and stopped pandering to every feeling. They likely wouldn’t have ended up in this,” he whirled his spoon in the direction of the glass case, “situation.”

His face felt hot from the attention as he drank it in. A deep warmth spread through him as he diligently scraped another plate of scraps into the center. The figure behind the glass stared at the food, but remained motionless. Alex didn’t look away this time.

They’re not even bothering to look grateful. I offer them food, and they just sit there.

He stared into the sunken lifeless eyes of the figure.

The least they could do is show some gratitude. Act like they appreciate us.

The host rose again at the end of the table. “My friends, once again, we make room.”

Alex stood with the others.

* * *

This time, Alex didn’t hesitate. He took his bowl, swallowed his pill, and bent over the porcelain bowl alongside the others. The vomiting came easier now as he relaxed the tension that had built up in his abdomen. When he straightened, he felt nothing but hollow relief.

The servants collected the bowls as the guests returned to their seats.

“My dear friends,” the Host started. “We come now to the evening’s most meaningful moment. A moment when we give back to the community. The most vulnerable among us will now join us in our final course.”

Servants moved along the table, and one by one, the glass boxes were lifted.

The figures inside unfolded slowly, blinking in the candlelight. If at first they seemed to hesitate, it did not last more than a single breath before they began to feed.

* * *

The figures crawled across the table, mouths tearing at meat before hands tossed the bones aside. Guests whispered as they watched. “Oh, that one has taken my lamb chop!” a woman cooed. “So generous of you to have offered it,” a man responded.

Alex watched one of them approach his section. The figure had been in a box further down the table. As it scrambled, its feet and knees and mouth soiled with food bits, something about their face seemed familiar. The shape of their jaw, the way their hair framed their face. Alex knew this face. They were from his own neighborhood. He went to school with this one. His stomach lurched.

So this is what became of you.

His eyes tracked the figure as it crawled past him, further down the table.

Crawling around like a wild beast. You were troublesome then, and look at you now.

“This is community,” the Hosts’ voice cut through his thoughts. “Feeding those who cannot feed themselves. What better act of service is there, yes?” He gave the audience time to contribute their amens and yesses. “Enjoy your desserts everyone, and the rest of your evening. Happy Consumption.”

The crowd applauded, Alex joining them as the Host excused himself through a door at the far end of the room.

* * *

As the needy fed themselves, the servants brought desserts for the guests. Sweet and rich, Alex savored every bit of the frozen dairy and muddled berry they placed before him. His stomach ached, raw from the night’s purging, but he ate anyway.

Maybe this time I could keep it.

As guests began to rise from their seats, several purged again before exiting the dining room. For a moment, he hoped to sneak out without having purged. But as if his thoughts betrayed him, the older woman, her mask's gold filigree sparkling in the candlelight, appeared at his elbow.

“My dear,” she said quietly, “to leave Consumption with food in one’s belly would suggest you came only to take advantage of the Host’s hospitality.” She glanced towards the figures still feeding on scraps atop the dinner table. “You wouldn’t want to be confused with one of them, now would you?”

She gave him a knowing glance, her palm proffering a red pill.

Alex stared at it. His stomach cramped at the thought of retching again. He imagined the long walk home, and how good it might feel to have something still inside him when he crawled into bed.

He swallowed the pill, and gave her his thanks, leaving behind a full porcelain bowl and making his way to the door.

“I am humbled by tonight’s charity. Thank you.” He said as a servant passed him his coat. He stepped out into the cold. Stomach hollow. At least his hands were warm.

* * *

The walk home was long and cold. Alex’s stomach cramped with every step, raw and empty. The pills had scraped him clean three times over.

His building’s entrance was dark. He climbed the stairs, an envelope waiting for him, perched atop his doormat just outside his door.

He picked it up as he entered.

Inside, he passed through his parlor without stopping. The furniture was polished, rug plush, and the fireplace was laid with wood he stubbornly refused to burn. A room for visitors. For appearances.

Beyond it, his domain. A narrow bed in the corner. Bare walls. A kitchen lit by a single dangling bulb.

He tore open the envelope. A thank you note, embossed in gold and tucked inside, another handwritten invitation.

His stomach growled, turning his attention to the pantry. He opened the door revealing half a bag of dehydrated beans sitting on an otherwise empty shelf. He shook three into his palm, swallowing them like pills.

He looked back at the invitation.

He would go again.