Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  One morning, too tired to climb the stairs, I remained huddled in the darkened parlor. I knew I would die if I stayed in that chair, and I wanted death to come, waited impatiently for its arrival. But my vigil was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Go away,” I tried to call out, but discovered that my voice was scratchy and hoarse with disuse. My visitor opened the door and entered, giving a gasp of surprise at what she probably supposed was my corpse. I turned my head to her and gave her a skeletal grin. “Good morning, Mrs. Blake,” I croaked, “so nice of you to call. How are you today?”

  She had been carrying parcels, direct from the market, which she dropped, scattering their contents on the hallway floor.

  “Oh, my poor dear.” She came rushing to me, and crushed me in a bosomy embrace. “I had no idea you would be so . . . well, you look so.... Honey, when I walked in I just thought you were dead.” She held me out at arms’ length and clucked her disapproval. “Hasn’t anyone besides me stopped to see you, to take care of you?”

  “I think people did knock. I just never answered the door and they didn’t come in.” Her presence began to revive me, warm me; she was so alive.

  “Well, never let it be said that I let a closed door keep me from doing my Christian duty.” She began to bustle around the room, neatening and straightening.

  I suppressed a giggle at the accurate summation of her personality. “Daddy always said you were a good . . .”

  “Hush, child,” she interrupted, peering at me with watery blue eyes. “Your daddy always said I was an interfering old busybody. And maybe he was right, but I can’t just sit here and let you waste away, if only for your mother’s sake. Now, have you seen the doctor?”

  I shook my head. “He can’t help me, just let me die.”

  “I’ll do no such thing and I won’t hear any more talk of dying. Now, we’ll get you cleaned up and dressed and off to the doctor.”

  She half carried me up the stairs, bathed me and dressed me as if I were a child. I succumbed to her attentions and let myself be coddled and comforted. It was such a joy for me to hear a human voice again, and Mrs. Blake provided a more than adequate amount of talk.

  As she helped me back down the stairs, I stumbled and fell, face forward into her neck. “Oh, Mrs. Blake,” I whispered, half fainting, “your perfume is wonderful.”

  “Perfume? Bah! What call would an old biddy like me have for wearing perfume? While you’re at it, have that doctor check your nose, too.”

  We reached the bottom of the stairs and she realized that the parcels she had carried in were still strewn on the floor. “Let me just put these away for now. When we get back, I’ll make you a nice supper.” She gathered everything and went into the kitchen, returning with a look of disapproval. “I can see no cooking’s been done in that room for a month of Sundays. You need some looking after, that’s a fact.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Blake,” I said meekly and allowed her to hurry me to the doctor’s office under bleak, overcast skies.

  After a thorough examination, I sat in a cold, uncomfortable leather chair awaiting his verdict. He sat across the desk, fingertips touching, and tapped his two forefingers against his lips. “I can’t find anything physically wrong with you, other than the fact that you are close to starvation. My advice to you is go home, eat a good dinner and try to start your life over. You can’t grieve forever.” He gave me a patronizing smile and pushed his chair back. “Have the dreams stopped?”

  “Dreams? What dreams?” I said confusedly. “I don’t remember any dreams.”

  “It’s probably just as well. You had some rather terrible dreams while you were in the hospital, brought on, I believe, by the shock of the accident. If you can’t remember, then you must be getting over it.” He got up from the desk and stood over me. “Now, Dorothy, I want to talk to you, not as a doctor, but as one of your father’s friends. This part of the country is no place for a woman without a man to protect her, especially now, with the whole place in an uproar over the coming war. You should give some thought to marrying again. No, certainly not right away,” he amended, seeing the shock his words caused, “but later on. You’re relatively young and attractive; that, plus the money your father left you, makes you eminently marriageable. In fact, I have a nephew in Lawrence, a widower with four children who could use a wife of your breeding and background. Why don’t I talk to him and see what can be arranged.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” I looked away from him, trying to hide my distaste at the suggestion. I had no desire to be married to a stranger, raising some other woman’s children when I could have none of my own. But I deferred to him as was appropriate for the times.

  “That’s a good girl,” He patted my arm in a fatherly gesture, seeming well pleased with himself. “Now go home and eat something. Come back in a month or so and we’ll see how you’re getting along.” He escorted me out of the office.

  Mrs. Blake babbled indignantly all the way home. “I know his nephew, my dear. Already balding and round about the middle. His wife died in childbirth, you know, delivering their fourth baby in as many years. Shameful, the way some people carry on. And telling you to go home and eat; why, I could have told you the same thing and saved us all the time. Oh, no,” she cried suddenly, interrupting herself, “speaking of time, I promised Frances I’d meet her at the church this afternoon. We’re setting up for the social tomorrow night. I guess if you need me, I could stay on a bit, but you know how Frances is. Oh, dear, I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Blake, don’t worry about me. In fact after this walk I feel a great deal better.” I lied about this, the sun was burning my eyes and skin and I felt weaker than before. But I had had enough company for the day and longed for my solitude again. “Don’t keep Frances waiting, she’ll never forget it.” I smiled at her wearily and my words seemed to reassure her.

  “If you’re sure you’ll be fine . . . now, mind you, cook up some of that good food I left you. There’s a roast, some new potatoes and some milk to mash them with.”

  “Thank you.” Impulsively, I gave her a small hug.

  “There, there, child. It will all come out right, just you see. I’ll be over tomorrow to see how you are.” She saw me to my front door, then hurried away, bewailing her lateness.

  I dutifully went into the kitchen and began to make preparations for my dinner. I put on a pot of water to boil the potatoes and turned my attention to the meat. It had sat while we were gone, and as I unwrapped the butcher paper my nose was assailed with the odor of blood and meat, slightly gamy, but still good. Suddenly I was ravenously hungry. I couldn’t wait for the roast to cook in its entirety, but decided to cut a slice for pan frying. In my haste with the knife, I nicked the tip of my finger and put it into my mouth to suck the wound.

  The first taste of my own blood almost knocked me senseless, but I continued to draw on the small cut until it was dry. Disappointed, I picked up the knife to cut myself again, until I saw the half-carved roast still on the table. This should suit me, I thought to myself as I picked it up and brought it to my mouth. I bit into the meat and pulled what blood I could from it. When the juices were all drained, I was left with a grayish husk, which I nevertheless devoured, tearing it with my teeth, teeth that suddenly felt odd, too large for my mouth. They interfered with my chewing of the raw meat. I discarded what was left of the roast, mostly fat and gristle, and went in search of a mirror to look at my teeth.

  I don’t know what I expected to see in the mirror but what I saw surprised me. There was no demon, no shadowy image, only my face staring back at me. But this was not the face I wore that morning. It was blood spattered from my struggle with the roast, but through the blood I could see that the gauntness had gone, the hollows beneath my eyes had been filled, and my skin had regained some of its normal coloring. I pulled my upper lip back to examine my teeth, the canines seemed longer, sharper and I felt them cautiously. Then even as I watched they seemed to diminish
back to their normal size. I shook my head to dispel the image and whispered softly.

  “God, what is happening to me?”

  I thought back to my pregnancy and remembered the odd whims and cravings that went with that period of my life. This, also, I rationalized, was probably no more than a passing phase, something that would not continue. And, though mentally confused, I realized that for the first time in over a month, I felt physically well. The severe lassitude had gone, replaced by such a wonderful feeling of wellness and wholeness. I attacked the household chores with a fervor I had seldom felt before, and when I collapsed into my bed shortly before dawn, the house was fit for viewing by a thousand Mrs. Blakes.

  Unfortunately, the bizarre meal of that day and the shock of health and activity that followed had an adverse effect on my sleep. I began to dream, slow, winding dreams that carried me far down the corridor of my life.

  I walk down a hallway. It is dark with many doors on each side. I slowly open the doors, one by one. I enter a room which contains the coffin of my mother; I know it to be hers because I am so small, I have to be lifted to see her face, pale and lifeless. I run from the room into another, to find my father, lying in his bed, motionless. He is dead, too, I know and I touch his cheek in a soft farewell before I leave. The next door I open carefully, knowing who is here. This coffin is sealed, but I try to open the lid. I had been denied a last view of this face and I want to see him again. Tears stream down my face, and I struggle with the heavy wood, scratching at the casket lid to no avail. My fingernails break and bleed, blood is flowing from my hands in concert with my tears.

  The odor of blood fills the room. I put my fingers up to my mouth and suck. Suddenly, I am not alone. I can see no one, but feel a breath, hot on my back, and an urgent mouth pressed to my neck. I push away and run the length of the corridor. It seems endless and I run forever, laughter pursuing me, chasing me down to the final door.

  This door I open in trepidation to find a wondrous sight. I am outdoors, on a clear summer night, in a sweet smelling field. I lie down on the grass, slightly wet but still warm from the day’s sun. I admire the stars; they are bright and beautiful and seem to speak to me of peace and contentment.

  “This must be heaven,” I whisper, afraid to break the mood, when suddenly the sky grows dark.

  An enormous black overwhelms the stars; it shifts its form, coalescing into the shape of a giant bird, man-sized and elegant. It hovers above me, as if in homage to my prone body, silently asking permission. I smile and stretch my arms to it; it descends upon me and I caress its wings, glossy as silk.

  I feel no shame as I realize my clothes have disappeared, for it covers my naked body with a rustling sigh. It—no, he—is dark and beautiful like the night, my skin against the ebony feathers is the pale white reflection of the moon, the stars. The coming together seems as natural, as inevitable as the tides. I welcome even the pain of his penetration, giving myself entirely to this creature of the night. We are one. His beak grazes my breasts, closing upon the nipples, and I gasp. He smells of blood, a perfume so intoxicating I almost faint. But his movement within me quickens and my body responds. “Oh, God,” I cry as he fills me with the blackness of the sky.

  He gazes at me, with wise crow’s eyes and promises future delights, then rises from me on strong wings. There is no feeling of emptiness when he departs, just a serene acceptance of this mystery. My thighs are sticky and warm. I lie there for what seems an eternity when suddenly above the soft night noises, I hear a strange tearing sound. I turn on my side, as curious as a child to witness this new event.

  The giant bird is systematically stripping the flesh from the bones of two bodies, one full-grown, the other piteously small. I want to cradle these two, bring them back to life, but I cannot move, cannot call out. I gasp and the bird stops its mutilation and turns to me, laughing. It is his laugh, the laughter of the corridor, but the face on the bird is mine . . .

  “You must kill it,” I shrieked. “Kill it before it grows larger.” I realized I was grasping at someone’s sleeve, my head burrowing into a warm lap. I open my eyes to see the broad, friendly face of Mrs. Blake, concern in her eyes. “Oh, it was so horrible,” I began haltingly. “I didn’t know. It was so beautiful, so dark, but so evil. How could I know? And I let it touch me and then it was tearing the flesh from their bones . . .” My mind stopped in mid-thought. “I can’t seem to remember it all, but it is important. I must try to remember.”

  “Now, now, dearie, it seems to me you should just forget it. It was only a bad dream, after all.” She looked at me critically. “How do you feel now?”

  As my fear dissipated, I relaxed and stretched, considering her question. “Actually, I feel good.” There was a note of surprise in my voice; I could hardly believe my physical state. “Better than good, I feel . . .” I paused, searching for the right word. “I feel reborn, as if this last, terrible month has been washed away.” To emphasize my words I arose from the bed and led her in a wild, whirling dance through the bedroom.

  She was flushed and breathless when we finally stopped. “Well, child,” she puffed, “you certainly seem fit enough. I knew a good meal and a good sleep would set you up righter than rain.” She beamed at me and nodded her head, taking full credit for my recovery.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Blake. You can tell them all that you did it, you and that beautiful, beautiful roast you brought.”

  “Well, I did have the butcher cut it special for me. I brought you another just like it, I did, when I saw that you had eaten the other.” At my look of shock—had she watched me eat it?—she laughed. “You see, child, I let myself in earlier, you were sleeping like a baby and I didn’t like to disturb you. But I did think I could help out with the cleaning and such. You beat me to it, though, didn’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer but continued. “Hard work is a good cure for what ails you. Anyway, what I meant to say was that I noticed when I was in the kitchen that you’d eaten it all. So I ran out and got another. It’s cooking right now, can’t you smell it?”

  Now that she had called it to my attention, I could indeed smell it; the nauseating smell of roasting flesh permeated the air. I would have to get her out of here, or she would sit down with me and force me to eat every bite. My mind raced, trying to come up with an excuse for her to leave, when I thought back to our conversation yesterday.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Oh, about half past five. You slept a good long time.”

  “But Mrs. Blake,” I said in mock horror, “don’t you have to be at church tonight?”

  “Goodness, yes I do! Seeing you put it clean out of my mind. But will you be all right? I don’t want to leave, somehow. You seem good now, but yesterday,” she clucked her tongue, “well, I don’t mind saying you gave me quite a scare there.” She rose. “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said reassuringly, restraining myself from giving her a push. “Have a nice evening.”

  I waited no more than a minute after I heard the door shut behind her, to rush down the stairs and try to salvage what was left of the meat.

  It was almost completely cooked, I discovered as I cut slice after slice, frantically looking for small patches of red flesh. I nibbled on one small piece, pink in the middle, but it tasted like clay. I opened the kitchen door and tossed it, pan and all, into the small yard. Then I opened the doors and windows wide to clear the odor and sat down on the porch steps.

  The sun was setting and the autumn air growing chilly, but I did not feel the cold. I stared into the approaching night as if answers could be found there, in the darkness. Suddenly, I sensed the stealthy approach of something nearing my house. I tensed and listened, relaxing when I picked up the soft padding of paws and the quiet breathy pants. The creature slowly came into view. It was a dog, a stray by the looks of the ribs showing through its fur. I could still smell the odor of the roast in the air; it was this that had brought him so near. “You have it, dog,”
I said quietly. “It does me no good.” He sidled past me and fell to devouring the meat savagely.

  When he had finished, he looked at me questioningly, with a half wag of his tail. “No, boy, there’s no more. Come here.” Surprisingly, he came right to me, and with one sniff of my opened hand, he settled in on the porch with me.

  He rested his scruffy chin on my knee and I scratched his pointed ears. “It’s a strange world, dog,” I confided to him, “where a mongrel like you can eat a fine meal, while I have to go hungry.”

  He gazed at me with trusting eyes and his tail thumped with a hollow sound on the wooden porch planks. I began to cry, silent tears streaming coldly down my cheeks in the night air. He hunched over close to me, offering what comfort he could and I buried my face in his soft fur. Instinctively, without thought, I pushed aside his thick hair with my tongue and sank my teeth into his neck. He snarled softly, whined, then relaxed as I was rewarded with the thick, salty flow. I took no more than two or three swallows, when, in horror at what I had done, I jumped away from him. He stared up at me, with adoring eyes and weakly wagged his tail again.

  “My God,” I whispered to the quiet night. “What have I become?”

  I stood on the porch for a long time, staring into the darkness, searching my mind for answers to my questions. Finding none, I entered the house, softly closed the door and went upstairs to my father’s room, where most of our books were kept.

  My father had been an avid reader of the horror literature of the time; by the time of his death he had accumulated quite an impressive collection, from potboilers to literary classics. One of my fondest childhood memories was his reading aloud from Shelley’s Frankenstein or from one of Poe’s short stories; I can still hear his voice echoing through the house quoting some dramatic passage. But he had other books which he would not read aloud. “Not suitable for a young lady,” he would say, putting those particular books aside, not permitting me to see them. It was these forbidden books that drew me to the shelves in his old room that night.