You lean closer, your breath misting in the cool air of the alcove. You observe him for a moment, his face pale and peaceful in unconsciousness. Reaching out, your fingers brush against the soft skin of his cheek. It’s smooth, almost like a child’s. You trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck.
Then, driven by an instinct older than language, older than culture, you lower your head. Your tongue, small and pointed compared to some of the women here, darts out. You lick a stripe across his cheek, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin, the underlying pulse of life beneath. A primal satisfaction stirs within you. Thank you, you think silently, a customary respect given in your homeland, even for the taken meal.
Next, you reach into your jacket pocket and retrieve a strip of cloth you always carry. It's a habit from home, caution learned over generations. Efficient. Practical. No unnecessary mess, no unwanted sounds. You gently roll him onto his side, careful not to wake him prematurely. You position the cloth and swiftly tie it around his mouth, effectively gagging him should he regain consciousness.
The pang of hunger intensifies, gnawing at your insides. You push aside the flicker of unease, the whisper of regret. This is survival. This is what you must do. You are not cruel, but you are hungry.
You take another moment, gathering yourself. This is not a rushed act. It is a deliberate, necessary process. You choose his arm first. It’s easily accessible, resting at his side. You take a firm grip, your fingers strong despite your slim frame. You lift his arm slightly, positioning it for optimal access.
Then, you open your mouth. Your teeth, sharper than they appear, find purchase on the flesh of his forearm. You bite down, tearing cleanly. You chew slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste, the texture. It’s rich, vital, fueling your weary body. You chew and swallow, then bite again, working your way along his forearm, piece by piece.
This slow, methodical consumption is not the hurried gulping you have seen some women practice here. It is not the dramatic, theatrical swallowing whole that seems to be preferred, almost expected, in this land. This is your way. The way of your people. A way that honors the life taken, drawing sustenance slowly, respectfully.
As you eat, you are aware of the taboo you are breaking, though no one is here to witness it. This land favors swift consumption, a display of power, a clear domination. Limb by limb is considered…uncouth. Primitive. But it is how you were taught. It is how you are comfortable. It is how you ensure every part is used, nothing wasted.
