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Rebel Hunger

They couldn’t help but feel perplexed. It didn’t make sense. It had been two hundred and fifty-seven years since they killed this many people in a single night. They were just so damn hungry. The witching hour was pressing on, and they were getting messy. Red-tinted clothes and smeared shoes. This would not do at all, they thought, not only do I look horrendous, but hideously suspicious, to boot. Nevertheless, I don’t have luxury to change. WHY MUST I HUNGER, SO?

The last victim was just left in the street; a lonely drunk possibly without a home. Probably wouldn’t be missed at all, either. They could still taste the whiskey in its blood. The first one of the night was a dancer that fancied them. They didn’t even have to pay it. A good show and a meal, one could not ask for much more. Except that the meal was unsatisfactory, and this was unacceptable.

Even during the Great Race Wars, they didn’t slaughter out of unquenchable hunger. It was sport, more or less. Some called it pride, and recompense. If all the sides of a conflict call on recompense for every loss, however, then an eye for an eye would leave the world blind. All except the one who deals the final blow. They slaughtered because they wanted to be that one, not for petty recompense.

Sirens began to ring out through the corridors of the city. I’ll have to flee, they ordered themself, there’s no way I can continue feeding here without being found out. They puffed out their chest and let out a heavy sigh. If only I wasn’t so damn hungry I’d be able to escape to the countryside or anywhere else but here. They couldn’t concentrate while the roaring sound of blood rushing through tasty veins echoed throughout the street. There was another sound creeping closer, though. It was the clanging of enforcer’s boots, but they couldn’t make out how many there were. It all seemed hopeless.

There was a half-wall flanking the entrance to a less-than-popular public house. Shame, really, because in its day it was the bustle of night life. Perhaps not the first public house in the city, but certainly the first of its kind. Vamps built it, just like most of the town. Ironic, really, that they should find themself in a situation of inevitable persecution in a city designed for feeding. More so, that they find themself unable to quench the hunger in such a city.

They crouched behind the half-wall and ran their fingers down its face. “Shhh. . . I need your sustenance, human,” it had a gaping jaw and trembling lips, and wells where its eyes were, “I need to taste your soul. I need you to fill my veins with your life and end this aching torture. You don’t understand, how could you? You’re only human. One day has felt like an eternity, and you would hardly know that, either.” They clutched its hair and pulled the head back to sniff its pungent jugular. They tugged with too much vigor and tore out a hunk of hair. The human let out a screeching yelp as they gripped its hair again and yanked some more. It tore out like straw from a scarecrow. They felt good to express such animosity again, but the hunger still raged. And the enforcers still searched.

They covered the human’s mouth with one hand and felt the ground with the other. They ran their nails across the stone. One-by-one their nails cracked and broke. The enforcers must have closed in after that screech. It was as clear as a blip on a radar. Despite pitchforks and torches not being a thing anymore, they still wouldn’t be able to fight off a whole mob of enforcers by themself. They would have to surrender and hope for the best.

At this point, execution is welcome. Anything to end this god forsaken hunger. 

At least twenty-seven enforcers appeared down the far end of the street. The sound of blood was deafening. Saliva was running like a river from their mouth. The best course of action would be surrender, of course, but they weren’t sure if the hunger would take over, which it did.

“I will come peacefully. . .” they tried to call out to the enforcers. The small human writhed about, kicking and flailing its arms. It went limp as they tore its heart from its chest in one swift moment of pure intent. The enforcers descended upon them immediately.

REBEL! You shall perish for your crimes, rebel. You shall be made an example of. Rebels do not belong in our city!”

“I BUILT THIS CITY, HUUUMMMAAAAAAAN!”

“You’re a savage, and a rebel, and your strength will not help you now. Neither will your kind.”

The elders were contacted and set trial for one year. This was not customary, but the elders were curious. What would they devolve into without feeding? Not one had gone so long without food. Not one had ever had insatiable hunger, either.

 

 

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The Best Medicine

strawberries, best medicine, campfire horror stories

They say that laughter is the best medicine. But it’s not. The best medicine tastes like strawberries. Not strawberries, like, real strawberries, but what some white lab-coat wearing men in a food research facility reckon strawberries taste like. It’s thick and gluggy, quite like venous blood.

Blood, of course, does not taste like strawberries. Unless the strawberries were carved out of metal, because blood tastes like a salty coin. I used to put coins in my mouth all the time, but now I’m not allowed. Mother said it’s bad for my fangs.