The Hunger

Despite my roiling stomach, all I could think about was food. I blinked open gooey eyes and fought against the nausea from a stabbing headache. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, and I knew my breath would wilt flowers. Without moving my head (I wasn’t ready to chance that yet), I gazed around the room. Empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays littered the coffee table next to the couch that had served as my bed. I recognized my surroundings as Ernie’s living room. Fragments of last night’s party sifted into my consciousness. I attempted to wedge my body upright and was rewarded with a jolt of pain. I looked down, certain that I would see a knife sticking out of my shoulder, but nothing was there.

I hadn’t been this hungover since the end of last semester when Ernie invited us all to come help him drink a bottle of tequila his older brother had brought back from Mexico. We were fascinated, and a little disgusted, by the segmented worm floating at the bottom of the bottle. We laughed as we performed the ritual of salt, shot, and refreshing squeeze of lime. By the end of the night, I was hung over the toilet, face to face with the contents of my stomach. I ended up splayed out on this very same couch to face the music the next day.

         As the gears in my brain sluggishly churned to life, I had dim visions of wild dancing the night before. Arms and bodies flailing like we all were afflicted by demented seizures. My shoulder throbbed again. Did I get into a fight with someone? Sometimes, my alcohol-added brain got combative and an ugly side of my personality emerged. I’d have to sort that out when I talked with someone else who had been there. Someone who had kept their head. I tried to massage away the pain in my shoulder but instead set off a bright spark of agony. I didn’t like the fact that there was a big gap in my memory.

I had arrived late in the evening after a library study session. The door swung in to a gyrating crowd, a haze of smoke, and the smell of too many bodies in too small a space. The first person I fixed on was Stacy. The crush I had on her was almost physically painful. I shouted a greeting to her in an attempt to be heard over the music. Stacy’s normally blue eyes were obscured by large, black pupils, letting me know she was off on her own trip, as usual. “Where’s Ernie?” I shouted. Stacy couldn’t muster the words. She pointed in the general direction of the kitchen and burst into laughter like this was the funniest thing in the world.

         I jostled my way towards the kitchen and Ernie handed me a shot glass before uttering a single word. It was the price of admission before I would be allowed to speak. Ernie was like that. He liked to have control over the situation. I downed the shot, feeling it burn and spread warmth in my chest. Just as I felt the first dim buzz of the alcohol, someone passed a blunt from which I took a long hit, coughing out smoke to the amusement of the kitchen crowd. I had meant to ask Ernie if he knew anything about the sirens I had heard on my way over. The weed and alcohol took over, and judging from Ernie’s state of mind, I didn’t think he would have an answer anyway. Probably just another ambulance heading to what I thought of as, “the old folks’ home”.

         For now, that was the extent of my memory of the night before. I struggled for more details, but they were sparse. I flashed to a memory of people screaming and running around. That clocked for an Ernie party. He loved to push the envelope. He liked making his parties memorable. One time, he had filled up his super-soaker and run through the crowd squirting people, causing general pandemonium. It was possible he had broken out that old chestnut.

My need for food was quickly becoming all I could think about. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone but came up with nothing but lint. I noticed a body crashed out on the floor, but they were dead to the world. I didn’t bother trying to figure out who it was. What I needed was some real food to get me headed back to the world of the living. I leveraged myself off the couch and started for the door. I thought of the diner downtown, with its famous omelets and then couldn’t think of anything else, except maybe some of their strong, dark coffee. Maybe I would try their steak and eggs. I pictured a perfect medium rare steak with the juice running out as I cut into it.

         Sleeping on the lumpy couch resulted in each step being stiff and painful. My shoulder was burning, like the shoulder blade was poking through the skin. I tried moving my arm and was greeted with another jolt of pain. I decided to just let it rest by my side. Food first, then I would evaluate what was going on with my dysfunctional body. I stumbled past beer bottles and cans, kicking one under the recliner in the corner. I squinted at the bright sunlight that met me beyond the front door.

         The streets were quieter than normal for a Sunday. I hadn’t caught sight of a clock at Ernie’s, and, without my phone, I had no idea what time it was. As I shambled down the street, I saw the door to Goldie’s Market lazily swinging back and forth, which seemed odd because they were usually fanatical about keeping the place in tip-top shape. A thin column of smoke rose from the direction of downtown. Probably someone who didn’t get the memo about not burning leaves this year because of the drought. The empty streets made me think there must be a home football game, and everyone was already there. This town loves its football. Down the block, a car had jumped the curb and smashed into a tree. The front end was a mass of crumpled metal, with broken glass littering the sidewalk and the hood. I absently wondered how long it had been there. Maybe the towing businesses didn’t work on Sunday mornings.

I saw a small crowd of people down the block, gathered in front of the diner. My stomach growled again. I couldn’t wait to open the door with its jangling bell and be greeted by the smell of bacon, toasted bread, and coffee. I was a few yards from the crowd when a woman near the back turned and looked in my direction. Her scream echoed off the buildings. I turned to see what she had seen behind me but saw nothing. When I turned back, the crowd had run down the block. That was really weird. I put all of that out of mind because if I didn’t eat something soon, I was going to pass out.

I pushed open the door and went in. An old man sat at the counter giving the waitress his order. My footsteps clattered on the floor and he turned towards me. I could smell him. Not his breath or his cologne, but his blood. His mouth hung open in an expression of horror. The waitress screamed and ran for the back of the diner. The man let go of his coffee cup and it shattered on the floor. He sat paralyzed on the stool looking at me with wide eyes. I reached for him, grasping at his shirt and ignoring the pain in my shoulder. Nothing else in the world mattered. Only my hunger. 

         A final part of my former consciousness fought my actions as I gripped the old man’s shoulders, but my hunger was in complete control. I opened my mouth wide and lowered it to his neck. I bit down, tearing out a chunk of flesh and feeling the warm rush of blood course down my chin. I didn’t register the man’s screams. I only knew hunger and the satisfaction of feeding on my prey. I chewed and swallowed, then lunged at his helpless body again, biting into his meaty face to rip away part of his cheek. His scrabbling hands grew weaker, and he collapsed to the ground. I knelt on the bloody floor next to his body and fed.