The Sweetest Hunger

She clawed her way toward him, dragging herself forward with one leg, teeth clenched. Her hands hovered over his chest, then his neck.

Still there.

Still beating.

Barely.

Another thud outside. Closer.

And then another. Harder.

No pattern. No reason.

Just something pounding at the edges of reality.

Then came the silence—that terrifying, anticipatory kind that makes the hairs on your neck rise and your ears strain for what's next.

She reached for the curtain.

It was thick, old, and dust-heavy, tied loosely to the inner brace of the cart with a frayed ribbon. She didn't know why she touched it. Maybe to shut the world out. Maybe because, in that moment, hiding felt like the only form of control she had left.

Her fingers trembled as they pulled the ribbon.

Snap.

The curtain dropped.

And the world outside vanished.

Not just the view—light itself. Gone.

The sun that had leaked through cracks in the wooden boards disappeared, swallowed like a snuffed candle. What remained wasn't darkness but something worse. Presence. A soft, low-density nothing that hovered, almost breathing.

She lifted her hand to her face.

Blurred. She could barely see her own fingers.

And then—

"Mmm…"

A groan.

So faint it felt like a hallucination. A whisper against the grain of silence. But it was there.

She froze.

Joy—sharp and radiant—flashed through her. He was alive. Still inside this nightmare with her.

She leaned close, heart thudding.

"Mmm… mmm."

Again. Two soft pulses of sound. Not words. Just struggle.

Her hands trembled—not just from fear, but from something in the air. It was pressing on her skin now, alive in its own way. Not wind, not cold—intent. The fabric of her white blouse shimmered under the curtain's dim light, catching a strange cast—gold-blue-brown.

The village color.

The sacrifice color.

Her breath caught.

She remembered the old stories. The ones whispered after dark. That color was chosen for death with purpose. For sacred rites. For offerings.

And here she was. Wearing it. Sitting between a man clinging to life… and something outside that wanted to get in.

Her fingers curled around the curtain again. If she let go, the pressure would flood in. If she stayed still, maybe—just maybe—they'd be passed over.

But her eyes were already shifting.

Something was wrong.

Something had been missed.

She turned, slowly, searching the dim cart.

And that's when she saw it.

Tucked between two crates, where no blood had reached, untouched by all the rocking, shaking, screaming.

An object.

Small. Simple. Unmoving.

It shouldn't have been remarkable—but everything about it felt wrong. Because in a cart full of things violently thrown about, it alone remained perfectly still.

Still… and watched.

The fear didn't touch it.

Even the tension of the air curved around it. Like it had its own physics. Its own laws. It wasn't part of the cart.

It was placed.

Waiting.

Eva's mouth went dry.

Her eyes flicked between the curtain in her hand and the object that waited.

Let go—and the world rushes in.

Stay still—and the moment passes.

She didn't know what it was.

Only that it was important.

That the scream, the blood, the knocks… weren't the end.

Because now, the object was calling her too.

"Mmm… mmm."

The sound came again.

But this time—not alone.

She saw it.

A tremble in his hand—subtle, yet deliberate. Not the twitch of muscle decay or the reflex of the barely conscious, but a motion with intent. Like he was trying to claw his way out of a nightmare not born of sleep, but of something else. Something older.

She turned, breath lodged in her chest, one hand still clenching the curtain like it was the only thing tethering her to sanity. The fabric felt impossibly heavy now, like it was trying to drag her down, pull her out into whatever waited beyond the wooden walls.

Then—his voice.

"What's going on?"

Thin. Frayed. As though it had been buried under silence for centuries and was only now remembering what it meant to speak.

It tore through her—not like a scream, but a relief so sharp it hurt. Her lips parted, but no sound came. A tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. Not from fear. Not even grief. Just release.

He was awake.

Alive.

Aware.

But with that awareness came something else—something she felt ripple through the air like a dropped stone in still water. Things were going to move now. Fast.

The silence outside had a new shape. Stillness twisted into a listening hum, deep and low, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.

She turned to face him, letting the curtain slip slightly. Just a fraction.

Bad idea.

Air rushed in—not just cold, but charged. A living draft, heavy with intent. It slammed into her like a fist. Her legs buckled. Pain coiled around her knees like bands of iron. Her thighs twitched violently. Sweat bloomed across her back and under her arms, her body convulsing under pressure.

She couldn't even speak. Her jaw clenched tight. There was no word that could shield them now. No phrase powerful enough to counter this force.

And still—he moved.

His head lolled toward her, confusion thick in his gaze. But deeper than confusion, beneath the haze and grogginess, she saw it—recognition. And fear. But not for himself.

For her.

Something about that look made her stomach knot. He remembered something.

Something she didn't.

Then came the slam.

His fist struck the floorboards—hard—exactly where the dried leaves had cushioned his back. The crack of wood under flesh echoed like a shot, followed by a sudden burst of brittle leaves exploding upward, dusting the air like ash. Some hit her face, others clung to her damp skin.

If that blow had been meant for her, she would've crumpled instantly.

But he wasn't done.

His head whipped side to side in fast, almost spasmodic jerks, as if something invisible was crawling in his hair. His neck cracked—loud. Not a pop, but a deep, grinding snap of bones realigning after long paralysis. It was violent. Painful. Not natural.

And he didn't stop.

Eva stood still—not from fear, but because she couldn't move. Her muscles were locked. Her legs twitched beneath her like spent wires. Her fingers had gone numb from how tightly she still clutched the curtain.

But inside her pain, somewhere between her failing limbs and her thudding heart, she felt something close to peace.

He was moving.

Even if it meant breaking herself, even if it meant suffocating in this thick, heavy air—he was alive.

Then… everything changed.