Insatiable

Darkness.

Not the kind that comes when you close your eyes. This is something else—heavy, dense, like the world’s been erased. It’s pressing down, sinking through me. I can’t breathe—can I? My chest should be moving, doing…something.

I don’t know why I expect that.

Then…something else. A noise. No, not a noise. A memory.

“I love you, babe.” A woman’s voice—warm, laughing. I can almost feel her next to me, see her face, smell her perfume, something like freshly peeled oranges—

Gone. Just like that.

I try to hold onto it, but it slips away like smoke. Something aches where the memory was, filling empty spaces, like something…lost.

Am I…lost?

No, I’m here. Here in the dark, here in the earth pressing in on all sides. It is cold, deep in my bones. In my flesh. No, no, it’s wrong.

I feel something slipping, a part of myself loosening, unraveling, sinking into the dark. I try to reach for it, to grab hold of me, but it’s fading fast, sinking below the surface like a drowning man. I tell myself, I’m still here, I’m still someone. But it feels like a lie.

Why can’t I move?

I try to lift an arm, a hand, anything, but everything’s sluggish. My fingers claw at nothing. Something below, above. Heavy. Settled. I should be moving, I should be—

Then it hits me, clear and sharp, like a broken bone.

I’m dead.

I’m dead. I don’t breathe. My chest is still, cold, rotting.

A surge of panic hits, a sensation I didn’t know I could still feel. I close my eyes—or maybe they were already closed—and try to piece together bits of memory clinging to me. A bright day. A laughing face. A small, sticky hand in mine. Gone. Gone before I can feel it.

The weight around me presses harder like the ground itself is claiming me, holding me down. I don’t know how I know, but I know I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be this. I should be…someone else.

“Happy Birthday!” Her voice, echoed through me, through the dark. I don’t know who she is, but the words cut through me, raw.

I remember her laughing, brushing a stray hair behind her ear, her eyes catching the light in that way that always made me stop and stare. She’d squeeze my hand and whisper, “You’re my forever.” The words are faint now, slipping away, but the warmth of them lingers, enough to hurt.

I claw at the darkness. I don’t mean to; I don’t have to. My fingers curl through the dirt, tearing, dragging myself upward. My hands pull, dig, until I feel the damp, cold earth under my nails, grinding against bone. The part of me that still thinks cringes. The other part? It just keeps going.

It’s like I’m watching from far away, a thought pulsing through my mind: Get out. Get out. Not a choice, an order I can’t ignore, from deep inside, where the human parts of me are fading fast.

I don’t know how long I claw, but the earth loosens above me, cold air seeping in, something other than the dirt. It’s thin, stale, the first taste of the world outside, and it makes me feel…alive. Alive and wrong.

My head breaks the surface, and the night air hits me, sharp. I gasp, but the air scrapes through me like glass. The world is blurry, washed out under the moonlight. Grave markers surround me, jagged teeth against the sky.

This is where I came from. Where they buried me. I’m a corpse, crawling out of my own grave.

The thought jolts, but it’s distant, almost faint, like something I heard once and already forgot.

Then that hunger—the one buried under memories, under voices—stirs, an ache deep in what’s left of me. Stronger than anything else. I push forward, not thinking. Just moving, pulled by instinct, by the urge rising, undeniable. I’m dead. I’m broken. But I need something.

I can’t stop.

I can’t go back.

The first thing I see, really see, under the sickly cast of the moon, is my hand. If you can call it that.

It’s a mess of sagging skin stretched over bone, torn in places, bits of muscle clinging to knobby joints, fingers twisted and rigid. Blackened nails caked with dirt and something else I don’t want to name. The sight—this thing I’m looking at, moving like it’s mine—hits me like an electric shock, horror rushing up, strangling me.

God. What am I?

I try to scream, but all that comes out is a sound—low, guttural, inhuman. Like an animal caught in a trap.

My hand…my arm…no, this isn’t my body. It can’t be. The skin hangs in loose, rotting patches, where it’s not already gone, exposing sinew and yellowed bone. I look down and see my clothes—shredded, filthy, stained with patches that could only be—

I shut down the thought, but the nausea twists inside me, pulling me toward something deeper. And then, as the horror swells, something else creeps in.

It starts as a twitch. A need, deep and feral, like a slow burn crawling from my center outward. It coils in my stomach, my muscles, my bones, driving out everything else. A hunger, sharp, jagged. Specific.

I don’t just want food. I want…something else. Something alive.

No. No, don’t think it. Don’t even say it. You don’t want this.

But I do. It’s already there, growing, swelling, filling the hollow spaces inside until there’s nothing left but the hunger. I try to push it down, to hold it back, but it’s like caging fire. It flares, a force driving me to move, to push one unsteady, broken foot in front of the other, leaving damp streaks of earth where I walk.

Ahead, movement. Shadows, soft and slow. A person, bundled in a coat, walking the edge of the graveyard, flashlight in hand. I want to warn them, tell them to turn around, to run.

STOP! But my body doesn’t listen.

I lurch forward. I’m watching, screaming inside, but I’m just a passenger, shackled here, while something else—some twisted, primal urge—takes the reins. My mouth opens, something wet and rotten drips down my chin, spilling onto torn clothes, but I can’t stop.

I’m close enough now to see him clearly: middle-aged, a little tired, maybe a little sad. He notices me, stops, frowning.

“Are…you okay?” His voice shakes, holding the flashlight up, illuminating my face.

The light hits his eyes, wide with shock as he takes in my face. His jaw drops. His lips tremble.

“Oh…my…God…”

Run, I want to scream. Run!

But my mouth twists, letting out a moan, low and ragged, and it’s enough—enough to send him stumbling back, breath hitching in fear. He turns, but it’s too late. My body surges forward, faster than I should be able to move, faster than anything this decayed body should manage.

I catch him from behind, fingers sinking into his shoulders. I feel his body seize, the heat of him, the life. The hunger digs deeper, takes control of my hands, my teeth, drive into him, tearing at flesh like it’s some kind of drug, some twisted ecstasy.

He screams, his voice cutting through the night, but my body just keeps going. My teeth sink into his shoulder, the taste that hits my tongue—

It’s warm. Alive. It fills me in a way nothing else can, something thick and metallic spilling down my throat, coating my mouth, and there’s a sick satisfaction that follows. A relief, even. Like I’ve finally given in to something I didn’t know I wanted.

Stop. Please. God, just stop.

But there’s no stopping. My mouth pulls back, jaws snapping down, over and over, feeling skin and muscle tear, tasting the salt and the heat of his blood. His body twists, weak hands pounding against me, scratching, fighting, but his voice is breaking, giving way to soft, strangled cries.

It’s him and me. My body devouring his, my mind screaming in silent horror, torn between the repulsion and the craving, both so strong I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.

I taste his life fading, bit by bit, until he stops moving, limp beneath me. My hands fall to my sides, and I’m left there, panting, mouth and hands covered in his blood, insides roiling with satisfaction and disgust.

The hunger settles, just a little, but doesn’t go away. It sits there, dark, waiting. I know it’ll be back.

I look down at what’s left of him, the bloodied mess that used to be a person. Pieces of him are scattered around me, stained on my clothes, smeared on my hands, and I feel nothing. Not horror, not revulsion. Just…emptiness.

No. That’s not right. There’s something else—something worse.

I feel good. Sated.

A part of me is horrified by this, revolted. But that part feels so far away, drowned by the darkness, the hunger whispering again, like an old friend. Like a promise.

I don’t know what I am anymore. But I know what I’ll do. When the hunger comes back, I’ll follow.

There’s blood on my hands. Dark, drying, almost black in the moonlight. It stains the shredded skin, sinking into the folds and cracks as if it belongs there.

I stare, feeling nothing. But then a name surfaces in my mind, just a whisper that strikes like lightning: Emily. It hangs there, echoing in the dark.

A face appears, flickers, blurs—her eyes dark and warm, framed by wavy brown hair. I almost feel her, the laugh that carries through time. She’s saying something to me, but her voice is faint as if drowned.

"I love you."

The statement hits me, and with it, shame, thick and heavy, curling around the hunger. 

And there’s a weight pressing on my chest, suffocating, even though I know I can't breathe. Guilt claws through the numbness, pulling her words up from wherever I tried to bury them.

But it’s gone, leaving only emptiness.

My head pounds, trying to piece together fragments of who I was. The flashes come and go, sharper, harder to bear.

The kitchen table, a family dinner, laughter. The smell of coffee, her voice as she hums. My wife. Her hand on my face, the love so clear I could cry.

Then it’s gone, and I’m left alone in silence. The hunger stirs again, gnawing through the warmth of memory.

Another face flickers into view. A child, a little girl with a gap-toothed smile, clutching a worn teddy bear, her eyes full of trust.

My daughter.

I’m holding her hand, somewhere bright, laughter filling the air. She’d giggle, squeezing my hand, saying, ‘Daddy, let’s do this forever.’ And I’d smile, say, ‘Forever, baby.' I feel it, warmth in my chest, something close to happiness, something I can almost touch.

The thought stabs through, sharp and real, and the pain that follows is worse than anything I’ve felt. I want to scream, to claw this feeling out of me, but it’s part of me, inseparable.

My family! I need to find them. NO!

And that’s when it hits, the full weight of it.

They’re gone. Forever. I’m the one left here, trapped in this rotting shell, condemned to this endless, gnawing hunger.

A laugh bubbles up, ragged, hollow. I’m dead, but I’m still here, clinging to what’s left of them in my mind, like some kind of pathetic penance. And yet, it’ll never be enough to fill the void they left.

The hunger stirs again, feeding on the pain, growing with each memory, each regret. But there’s something else, faint, a whisper from the last remnants of who I was.

You don’t have to do this.

I close my eyes, letting the memories wash over me, feeling their warmth, their pain. And for a moment, the hunger loosens, slipping back, and I’m just…me. A person. A father. A husband.

I can stop, I'm trying to cling to that sliver of clarity. I’ll stop.

But the hunger is there, lurking, waiting.

----------

I thought I could stop.

I was wrong.

The hunger comes back, an unrelenting, insatiable beast. It doesn’t care about vows or memories. It rises, drowning every thought, every last shred of who I was. All I know is the hunger, expanding, filling me like rot spreading through flesh.

I stumble forward, dragging my feet, each step closer to the living. A faint glow of streetlights in the distance pulls me, and even as I scream in my mind to turn back, it’s too late. My body isn’t listening.

A man steps out of a car, his whistling dying the second he catches sight of me. For a heartbeat, there’s confusion in his eyes—just a flicker of disbelief. But I’m close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.

Run, I think, but he doesn’t get a chance. My hands dig into his shoulders, nails scraping bone. He tries to pull back but I clamp down my teeth shredding through his skin, hot blood gushes into my mouth. It's metallic and raw, filling me with a sick, animalistic thrill.

He's screaming, a primal sound that echoes through the night, but it only fuels my hunger. My teeth grind deeper, ripping flesh, crunching tendon. His warm blood splatters, hot and sticky, over my hands, down my chin...

“No…no…” The words spill out, garbled, thick with blood. Somewhere inside, I want to stop, loosen my grip, let him go. But the hunger claws at me, relentless, drowning out any shred of mercy. My hands keep moving, fingers tearing, teeth sinking deeper, until I’m lost in the raw, brutal rhythm—ripping, gnawing, consuming. I don’t stop until he’s just a bloodied, hollowed shell at my feet, a nightmare painted in red.

I stagger back, wiping my mouth. I can still taste him, feel him inside like he’s become part of me. 

I stumble away. 

The hunger gnaws, relentless, twisting inside me. 

I turn a corner, desperate to escape, but there’s someone else—a woman, walking her dog, oblivious.

No…please…not again… I beg, but it’s useless. My body moves on its own, drawn toward her warmth. 

Her screams slice through the darkness as my hands latch onto her, fingers digging deep, holding tight. I bite down, tearing into her shoulder, the rush of her blood searing through me. It fills me, but somehow only sharpens the hunger, that endless, insatiable need that nothing—not even flesh—can satisfy.

Please, I think, let this end. Let me die.

But the hunger… it stirs again. I feel it, low and insistent, an ache that won’t go away.

I close my eyes, hoping for darkness, for an end. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the hunger, whispering. And I know, in the deepest part of me, that this will never end.

----------

I open my eyes, hunger gnawing at my bones, and find myself on a dark street lined with familiar houses. I don’t know how I got here.

One moment, I was somewhere else, sinking into darkness. Now I’m standing in front of a house that feels…known. The porch light flickers weakly, barely alive. My eyes trace the door, the windows, edges worn by years of something I can’t name.

A tightness clenches in my chest. I’m not supposed to feel anything. But this place presses on me, screaming from a fading part of me I can’t reach.

I step forward, feet dragging over concrete. My hand—what’s left of it—finds the door. I feel the metal, cold sinking into bone.

The door swings open.

Inside, the smell hits. Coffee. And something warm, like—

No. Stop.

But it’s too late. I know this smell. This place.

My feet pull me inside, down the dark hall. I’m moving without meaning to, my body betraying me, dragged forward. The hunger—that terrible hunger—pushes me on.

A sound from upstairs. A creak. Tiny feet across carpet. I know what it is before I see.

The hunger digs in, twisting me, urging me up the stairs. I don’t want to go, but I can’t stop.

At the top, a door stands slightly open, a strip of light spilling into the hall. In the center of it, a small shadow shifts.

“Daddy?”

The word hangs in the air. Her voice, fragile, like a whisper wrapped in cotton.

I try to say her name, to warn her, but all that comes out is a low, guttural growl. Her eyes widen; she steps back, dropping her teddy bear on the floor.

Her lips tremble. “Daddy…?”

Her face blurs, twisting, fading, but there’s something else—a flicker, faint, buried in what’s left of me.

Love.

It’s small, fragile, breaking through the cracks, just for a heartbeat. Her name is there, soft and warm. I remember her tiny hand in mine, her laughter, the way she’d look up at me with those trusting eyes, the way she’d curl up against me, safe, warm. I know I would do anything to protect her. Anything to keep her safe.

But then it’s gone, snuffed out as the hunger roars up, an endless, gnawing void swallowing everything I was, everything I am, shredding the last scraps of me, chewing up memories, swallowing every last trace of who I was. What’s left of me drowns, dragged down, a stone sinking in a black sea.

All I hear is the beat of her heart, pulsing warm in the silence.

Run. Please, baby…run.

But I lurch forward, teeth bared, hands reaching.

The hunger takes over. I am gone.