Living Hunger

Frederique barely remembered stumbling back home.

Her feet were bruised and torn, her breath ragged as she finally reached the front door. The house was dark...silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock.

No sign of her parents. Not that it surprised her.

Fumbling with the lock, she shut the door behind her, leaning against it. The silence felt heavier now, pressing in from all sides.

'You're not alone.'

The voice wasn't hers.

The hunger twisted inside her again, sharper, deeper. She could feel it pressing against the edges of her mind, coiling, writhing.

Stop thinking about it.

She stumbled into the kitchen. Her stomach ached, gnawing, desperate.

Food. Just eat something normal. It'll stop.

Frederique yanked open the fridge. Cold light spilled out, but nothing seemed right. She grabbed leftovers...pasta, cheese, some bread. It wasn't enough. She ate quickly, barely tasting the food as she shoveled it down. Bite after bite, swallowing whole.

Still empty.

The ache remained, deeper now, heavier.

Not enough.

The cat flashed through her mind again...its body, the scent of blood.

She gagged.

"No. No, no, no."

Frederique dropped the plate, her hands trembling. It shattered, ceramic shards scattering across the floor.

She barely noticed.

The ache was worse.

She gripped the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. Her teeth hurt, her gums throbbing as if...as if they were changing.

"What's happening to me?"

From the corner of her eye, she caught her reflection in the dark window above the sink.

Her eyes.

Not hers.

Too bright. Too wide. The pupils narrow, almost sharp like a predator's.

She stumbled back.

And then...

The hunger surged.

A blur.

She wasn't fully there anymore.

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Frederique woke up sprawled on the kitchen floor.

Cold tile pressed against her cheek. The fridge door was still open, food scattered everywhere. Her stomach churned...not with pain, but with satisfaction.

And her hands...

Red.

Sticky.

She jerked back, scrambling to her feet.

Blood.

But it wasn't hers.

A chunk of raw meat lay torn apart on the counter, ripped open like an animal had been at it. The packaging was shredded.

She'd eaten it.

Raw.

A dry, gasping sob escaped her lips.

The voice stirred again.

Hunger.

It wasn't angry. Not cruel. Just... a voice. A pressure.

A need.

But it wasn't hers.

" No. No, I'm losing it. This isn't me. "

Frederique's eyes darted back to her reflection in the window. Her face looked pale, gaunt, but sharper somehow. Her eyes were still too bright, too wrong.

She backed away from the counter, the ache in her stomach shifting..less painful, more... satisfied.

' You fed.'

It hit her all at once.

The hunger was quieter now.

But it wasn't gone.

It would never be gone.

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She didn't sleep that night.

The clock ticked on, the house creaking around her. She stayed curled up in bed, knees to her chest, flinching at every sound.

But nothing came.

No voice.

No presence.

By morning, she almost convinced herself it had been a nightmare.

Until she saw the blood under her nails.

And felt the hunger begin to stir again.