Wicked Hunger (Someone Wicked This Way Comes)

by DelSheree Gladden

  “No!” Tears start dripping down her cheeks. “Of course I don’t want you to end up like Oscar. I’m sorry, Zander, but I had to. I had to know if you felt it, too.”

  Another string of threats and fury are about to slip out of my mouth when her words sink in. “Too?” I ask slowly. “What do you mean you had to know if I felt it…too?”

  Van sniffs and wipes her nose, still refusing to look at me when she talks. “When I met Ivy at lunch today I almost jumped over the table at her.”

  My stomach churns at the mental image. Van has always had much bloodier tastes than I have. More dramatic, too. Her hunger craves blood and gore just as much as pain. The messier the better for her. I know all too well that the girl’s throat would have been removed with Van’s teeth, like a predatory animal. Van is predictable in that way, fast, adrenaline driven, and deadly. My hunger has a totally different taint to it. Just thinking about what I wanted to do to that girl makes the steering wheel crunch under my hands. My whole body is shaking with the desire to jump out of the truck and follow her. I can still see her walking away from me, the pink stripe in her hair bouncing lightly with each step.

  I shake my head and try to clear my thoughts of the girl so I can focus on what Van is telling me. “Your hunger wanted that girl, and so did mine. It’s never worked like that before.”

  Van trembles and hugs herself. “I know.”

  “What made you even think to bring her to me then?” I ask, my body finally starting to relax.

  “I’ve never felt such a strong desire to kill anyone before. That was the worst it’s ever been for me. She’s different. Something’s wrong with her. I thought I was losing it, but I thought that if you could feel me respond so much it would at least mean it was real. I never expected you to react to her. I’m so sorry, Zander.”

  I manage to get one hand off the steering wheel and rub it against my forehead. Was seeing that girl, Ivy, a worse reaction for me than usual like it was for Van? I shiver at the mere memory of it. The hunger for her is going to stay with me for a very long time. Van is always looking for something more, something to explain what’s wrong with our family. She wants our problems to be bigger than us. She wants an explanation. I do too, but I came to face the reality that we are alone a while ago. There is no secret behind our disastrous existence. We’re freaks, mistakes, oddities. No one is going to come and explain the purpose behind our design. I understand that, but Van doesn’t. That’s why I’m not about to admit to her how much Ivy affected me.

  “It’s probably just because you’re getting closer to your birthday. You know the hunger gets worse once you hit sixteen.”

  “No,” Van says shaking her head, “this was different. I’ve felt it all day. She knows something, Zander. She’s been acting really strange. There’s something off about her.”

  My frustration with her bursts out of me in a growl. “There’s nothing wrong with her, Van. There’s something wrong with us! Or haven’t you figured that out by now?”

  I don’t wait for her to answer. I jam the gearshift into reverse and plow out of my space without checking for cars or pedestrians. The truck powers out of the parking lot and into the busy afternoon traffic like a bulldozer. Everyone gets out of my way.

  The quiet roar of the truck’s engine is the only sound as we drive. Van sits quietly, tugging at a loose string on the hem of her shirt. Part of me wants to put my arm around her shoulder. I’d like to tell her that everything will be okay. I would give anything to be the comforting big brother I know she’s desperate to have. But I can’t. Not after Oscar. I learned my lesson with him. Van needs to grow up, and the sooner the better. She needs to accept that if she doesn’t figure out how to control her hunger now, it’s going to change her into something neither of us will recognize.

  I pull up to the dance studio and turn off the engine. Usually, I just hold the brake and wait for her to jump out. She looks over at me with a question in her blue eyes.

  “I want you to stay away from that girl,” I say.

  “But she’s Laney’s cousin. I can’t avoid her without doing the same to Laney.”

  “Maybe that’s just how it has to be, then. When you turn sixteen and your hunger really wakes up, it will be too intense and you’ll have to give up all of your friends anyway. You know that, even if you won’t admit it.” Giving up friends, it’s something Van should get used to, now, because it isn’t going to stop any time soon.

  Van shakes her head. “No, Zander. She’s my best friend. I’m not going to bail on Laney like that, no matter how bad my hunger gets.”

  “You think she’ll be happy you stayed friends with her when you kill her pretty little cousin?” I snap.

  Her head drops down, but I can still see the corner of her mouth twitching. “I can control it. I won’t hurt her.”

  “You can’t guarantee that.”

  “I won’t live like you,” she says quietly. “I won’t live alone for the rest of my life because I’m scared of hurting people.”

  I sigh and close my eyes. “It’s not about being scared, Van. It’s about being smart. Stay away from her.”

  For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. Deep down, I’m hoping with everything I have that she’ll listen to me. I can’t go through it again. Oscar nearly broke me. She can’t expect me to go through that with her. I won’t make it. Please just listen to me, I beg.

  When she finally speaks, her voice startles me. “She knows something.”

  It’s just a simple sentence, but it ignites my anger like a match to a fuse. “She doesn’t know anything! Nobody does. Get that through your head and quit looking for answers, Van!”

  My sister’s head snaps up and my hands tighten into fists at the determination in her eyes. “She knows something, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

  Then she throws open the door of the truck and runs away.

  A pair of little girls, who can’t be more than four years old, bounce into the studio behind Van with their tutus and ballet slippers. The urge to run in after my sister and shake her until she changes her mind dissipates as the tiny ballerinas start pouring into the building. She’s not going to escape me, though. I still have to pick her up when she’s done working, and take her home, and drive her to school tomorrow. I’m going to crush this out of her eventually.

  Since my crusade is going to have to wait until at least eight o’clock, and football practice starts in twenty minutes, I pull out of the parking lot and speed back toward the school. When I burst into the locker room, it’s almost empty. Only a few stragglers are still pulling on pads and practice jerseys.

  A quick look around confirms to me that Carson Davis isn’t one of them. Carson is the only one of my teammates that stirs up my hunger this year. Last year, two of the seniors nearly made it impossible to control myself on the field. Luckily, Carson plays on the offensive line, opposite my usual starting position, and we have very little contact. Carson is the least of my problems today.

  Curses run through my mind as I rant at both myself and my sister. Outwardly, I’m calm and controlled. My movements are efficient as I shrug into my gear. As quickly as possible, I am stalking out of the locker room.

  As soon as my feet hit the turf, the other players come alive. I never join in their rowdy behavior and general excitement, but my team’s enthusiasm to see me makes me smile inwardly. They all know their chances of winning double as soon as I step onto the field. When I finished my freshman tryout, Coach Benson walked up to me and simply asked what position I wanted to play. It didn’t matter that the team already had a senior playing quarterback, another one at wide receiver, and juniors at most of the other key positions. I could have my pick, no questions asked.

  I think my answer surprised him. Safety isn't the most glorious position in football. Coach Benson didn’t seem to appreciate my choice, and all but refused at first. He wanted me in a more active, gaming determining position. His suggestion was runningback. I wasn’t th
rilled about the idea of playing runningback, and it took a deal with Coach Benson to finally make me agree. I got to play safety on defense as long as I tore up the field as a runningback on the offense. Offense doesn’t interest me that much, because I’m always running away from the other person, but as long as I get to be where I know I will get to hit a lot of people on the other side of the ball, I don’t mind as much.

  Nobody gets by me, which is how I ended up the team captain as a junior instead of the senior playing quarterback. We all pile out onto the field together, the others jogging excitedly, me walking with my thoughts more focused on Van and Ivy than football. It’s almost impossible to stop thinking about my sister and the effect that strange girl had on me until the first real play kicks off. The massive bodies of the offense charging down the field reaches down inside me and grabs onto the hunger I keep so carefully hidden.

  Hitting people hurts. The person getting hit feels it the most, but the person doing the damage gets a piece of it as well. It’s nothing compared to willfully and maliciously causing pain to another human being. Nothing can replace the all-consuming feeling of stripping away life, but this is a substitute that keeps me from indulging in things I shouldn’t.

  Samuel keeps the ball tucked under his arm and against his chest like he’s supposed to. He’s got guts. I keep my eyes on him as his body speeds toward me, judging my position and trying in vain to get around me. The hunger I felt at the sight of Ivy rebuilds inside of me. It’s so hard not to let it fill me, to carry me over the limit of my endurance. My vision tints red as I burst forward. Samuel’s eyes widen as his body turns slightly to prepare for the impact he knows is coming. The strength in my arms wraps around Samuel to the point that I can feel all the breath rush out of him. Whatever air was left comes bursting out as I fling him to the ground with me.

  We roll a couple times across the grass before coming to a stop. There’s still so much hunger left that my fingers dig into the grass in an effort to keep them from acting. It takes me a moment to realize Samuel hasn’t gotten up yet, either. The familiar feel of panic pulls me up from the ground. I crawl over to my teammate in a rush. I let myself drink too deeply. My hunger will take me on a ride I can’t control if I’m not careful. I touch his shoulder gently, praying to a god I have no belief in, desperately asking for him to be alright.

  I sigh in relief when Samuel coughs and struggles up to a sitting position. “Crap, Zander,” he says, “that was worse than usual. What’d you eat today?”

  It’s not what I ate, but more of what I didn’t get to consume. I shake that thought away fiercely. “Sorry, man.”

  “No, problem, just promise me you’ll do that to Los Lunas next week.” He winces as he pulls himself back up to his feet.

  “You okay?”

  He claps me on the back and nods. “Overheard Coach Benson telling Coach Falk to work you hard the next couple weeks. Couple scouts are coming to the season opener next Friday, I guess.”

  “I’m just a junior, Samuel. I’ve still got another year here.”

  “You should be a senior. If it weren’t for all the stuff last couple years that put you behind, you’d be out of here at the end of the year.”

  “Well, things are what they are. They’re probably interested in Thompson or Sanchez.”

  “Right,” Samuel scoffs. “How many scholarship offers do you have already? Five? Six?”

  There’s no jealousy in his voice. Samuel is a tough kid and he loves the game, but he has no delusions of making a career out of it. He just hopes that when I go pro I’ll get him season tickets. He’s the closest thing I have to a friend.

  “Twelve,” I say in answer to his question, “but some of those are for basketball.”

  He just shakes his head. “The scouts aren’t coming for Thompson or Sanchez.”

  “Where are they from?” My curiosity gets the better of me and a hint of excitement slips through my mask. Samuel sees it and grins.

  “LSU and Alabama.”

  The two top college football teams in the country. I can’t contain my smile any longer. I’ve got for sure full rides with a dozen colleges, promises of scholarships and more from twice that number if I commit now. But most of those offers are from my home state colleges UNM and NMSU and the surrounding states, which are good schools, but not the best. I want a top college. It’s not that I care about the prestige or the fame that goes with playing for teams like Alabama or LSU. I want the carnage. Teams like that play other top teams. They go at each other with bone crushing force born from a need to be the best. I’ll help them out with that, but I’m after the pain, not the record.

  Coach Benson’s whistle calls our attention back to practice, and I’m forced to put on hold my dreams of inflicting maximum damage on other college players. I’ll have to settle for my own teammates for now. I throw myself back into practice, although I tone down my enthusiasm a little in order to keep from maiming my teammates before the scouts get here. Most of the offense that comes in contact with me still walks back to the locker room feeling the residual ache, but it’s not too bad. As for me, I find myself almost happy as I follow the rest of the team into the locker room.

  The feeling lasts through my shower, through getting dressed, all the way until I get out to the parking lot and see her.

  Just the sight of her pink and black hair sends fire racing through my entire body. The chin length cut with the ends fraying out in a pixie-like style make her defined cheekbones stand out, the pink wisp matching her full lips in a way that makes them look even sweeter. Her smoky eyes watch me carefully, on guard. Every inch of her is beautiful, I realize for the first time, but it’s only a small, unimportant thought in the back of my mind, about to be swallowed up by the aching need to wrap my fingers around her neck.

  For several excruciating minutes, neither of us moves or speaks. Ivy holds perfectly still, but I can see the fear in her eyes. She doesn’t move because she’s likely afraid of looking aggressive. I don’t believe for a minute that Van is right about her knowing something about us. This girl is simply smart, level-headed enough to realize that I am more dangerous than I look. Running only incites a predator’s drive to conquer. Even with her standing still, I am the first one to take a step.

  My other foot follows, picking up speed as they go, and carrying me over to her before I can form a thought coherent enough to stop my body from taking control. Ivy’s eyes are big and bright when I finally pull myself to a halt less than two feet in front of her. She draws in a slow breath as her blue eyes sparkle with panic. Her bottom lip trembles so slightly I would never have noticed it if I weren’t staring at her so intently. I want to touch her rose petal pink lips, but whether to see them turn scarlet with blood or simply to feel their softness against my mouth, I don’t know. I just want…to touch her.

  “Z-Zander,” Ivy says quietly, her lips barely able to form the single word.

  I can’t respond. If I move a single muscle, my hunger will take control. She’ll be dead before she can even start to cry out for help.

  She bites the corner of her lip, looks at the ground, and then back up at me. “I’m, um, sorry, if I, uh, did something to offend you earlier,” she manages to say.

  Ivy bites her lip again, which does absolutely nothing to curb my desire to make her suffer, and waits for me to say something. All I can do is watch her canine dimple her flesh and beg it to keep going. My hand moves from my side, toward her. Ivy flinches at the movement, and I pull myself together enough to bring it back.

  “I…should go,” Ivy says suddenly. She starts to turn, but my hand snaps out and grabs her arm before she can complete the movement. Her eyes fly to mine. I can see the tears forming. The glassy affect they cause makes her eyes melt into liquid sapphires.

  We are frozen like this, with her about to cry and me holding her arm, when Samuel and a couple of the other guys walk around the building and see us. All three of them slow to a halt as they take in the scene.

 
“You okay, Zander?” Samuel asks. “Is she bothering you?” The three with him square their shoulders in my defense. Ivy only blinks in disbelief, dislodging a single tear.

  “No,” I say, “we’re fine.”

  “You sure?”

  Samuel scrutinizes Ivy. Her average height, maybe five foot seven, is nothing compared to mine, and our weights are an even bigger discrepancy, but these guys know me. Thanks to my careful control, they only see me as a quiet, calm guy who never raises his voice or shows any kind of aggression off the field. They know, too, that I’ve had trouble with persistent girls before. None of them have ever asked why I don’t date, and no one has ever been brave enough or stupid enough to insinuate that I might be gay, but they are aware of the fact that status-hungry girls have no place in my life. They’ve run interference for me before, and they must all think this is just another one of those times.

  “We’re fine, Samuel,” I assure him. “Go ahead. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

  The three of them nod reluctantly and head toward their cars. I don’t let go of Ivy’s arm until they leave. Fear that she’d run away isn’t what made me hold her until we were alone again. It’s the bruises. My hand springs away from her skin and blood rushes to the injured tissue, discoloring it instantly. She sees the finger-shaped splotches and her other hand reaches up to cover them. Her touch must hurt, because a few more tears fall down her cheeks.

  I don’t know why, but my fingers are suddenly on her cheek. Her gasp makes me pause. Another tear falls, and I watch as my fingers glide across her silky skin and brush it away. It is by far the strangest experience I have ever had. Not just touching a girl’s face, but touching Ivy’s skin and feeling something other than the desire to crush and disfigure it. Those feelings aren’t gone, not even close, but battling with the urge to dig my fingers into her skin and strip it away is the desire to simply run my hands over every inch of her. It’s almost as strong as my hunger.