The warmth spreads through you, chasing away the chill that had settled deep in your bones. You detach the remaining piece of forearm, the joint clicking softly. As you bring it to your mouth, a shift in the air behind you, a subtle tension, makes you pause. You glance back, your senses heightened.
His eyes are open.
They are wide, unfocused at first, blinking rapidly in the dim light. Then, clarity sharpens them, and pure, unadulterated terror floods their depths. His muffled scream strains against the cloth binding his mouth, a high-pitched whine that vibrates in the confined space. His body arches against the cold stone, a desperate, futile struggle.
You watch him, your own movements frozen for a heartbeat. This was not part of the plan. You preferred them unaware, peaceful until the very end. But instinct, honed through generations of survival, kicks in. There’s no fear in you, only a cold, focused pragmatism. Panic now would be wasteful.
His struggles intensify. He thrashes, his legs kicking out weakly, hitting against the wall of the alcove. His eyes are locked on you, fixed with a horror so profound it’s almost a physical force. You can see the veins bulging in his neck, the tendons standing out in his forearms as he fights against the unseen restraints, against the inevitable.
You meet his gaze, a faint flicker of something akin to apology within you. It’s not cruelty that drives you, understand? It’s necessity. It’s the way of things. You try to convey this, though you know he cannot understand your language, let alone your customs. Your eyes, you hope, speak a truth beyond words.
Then, you return to your task. Ignoring his escalating screams, you bring the piece of forearm to your mouth and continue to chew. The taste, rich and iron-laced, fills your senses. You chew slowly, deliberately, each movement precise, each swallow considered. You are aware of him watching, his terror a palpable presence in the air. You try to block it out, to focus only on the sustenance you are gaining, on the surging strength returning to your limbs.
Finished with the first arm, you shift your attention to the other. It lies limp by his side, readily available. You take hold of it, the skin cool to your touch. His screams have become ragged now, punctuated by choked sobs. Tears stream from the corners of his eyes, cutting clean tracks through the grime on his face. He stares at you, his gaze pleading, begging for something you cannot give.
You raise his other arm, positioning it. He flinches, a minute spasm that ripples through his body. Does he understand? Does he comprehend what is happening to him? Or is it just pure, animalistic terror, a response to the violation, to the rending of flesh? Perhaps it is better if he doesn’t understand. Perhaps understanding would only amplify the horror.
Again, your teeth find purchase. You bite down, tearing through skin and muscle. This time, the scream that rips from his throat is even more raw, more visceral. It’s a sound that claws at the edges of your composure, a sound that speaks of unbearable agony. But you press on. You must.
You chew, and chew, and chew. You work your way up his forearm, methodically stripping flesh from bone. Each bite is a deliberate act, a conscious choice. The other women here, they would have swallowed him whole by now. A quick, decisive end, but that is not your way.
This slow consumption, this…dismemberment, it feels almost intimate in its own gruesome way. It’s a drawing out of life, a careful, almost respectful extraction of sustenance. It’s a connection, however brutal, between predator and prey. A connection born of necessity, of survival, of the ancient dance of life and death.
His struggles weaken. The screams become whimpers, then just choked gasps. His eyes, though still open, are losing focus again, glazing over with shock and pain. The fight is draining out of him, replaced by a weary resignation. He is yielding to the inevitable.
You finish the second arm. The hunger is now a dull thrum, a background hum rather than a sharp, demanding pang. But you are not yet finished. You need more. You need to ensure you will not be vulnerable again anytime soon. Opportunity like this does not present itself often.
You shift your position, kneeling now beside his torso. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths. He is still alive. But for how much longer? He is fading, slipping away.
Your gaze drifts downwards. Your eyes fixate on the bulge beneath his trousers. In your homeland, this part is considered a delicacy. Rich in…essence. It is said to impart strength, vitality. Here, you are not sure if it holds the same significance, but the instinct is there, deep-seated, undeniable.
You reach out, your fingers brushing against the fabric. He flinches again, a tiny tremor that runs through his body. Perhaps he understands your intent now. Perhaps a primal fear, older than language, speaks to him even in his fading consciousness.
You reach for the waistband of his trousers, your fingers working with practiced efficiency. The fabric gives way easily. You expose him. He is vulnerable, utterly, completely vulnerable. And you are the predator.
His eyes, somehow, find focus again. They lock on your face, and in their depths, you see not just terror, but something else. Shame? Humiliation? It’s fleeting, difficult to decipher in the swirling vortex of his pain and fear.
You ignore it. You cannot afford to be swayed by fleeting emotions. Survival is paramount. Your hand closes around his penis, firm, unyielding. He makes a small, choked sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. Out of what you hope is taken as kindness you give it a tiny lick.
Then, in one swift, decisive motion, you bring him to your mouth. Your teeth close. There is a sharp, tearing sensation, a brief, intense spike of pain that radiates from him. And then, in a single gulp, you swallow.
You feel his penis slide down your throat, a thick, dense mass. You swallow again, ensuring it goes down smoothly. A rush of…something…fills you. Satisfaction? Vitality? Or is it just the satiation of your hunger?
His body convulses. A final, shuddering spasm. Then, stillness. His breathing stops. His eyes remain open, fixed on the empty space above, but they are no longer seeing anything. The light has gone out of them.
You look down at him. He is…incomplete now. Diminished. But you are not yet finished. There is still much left. And you are still hungry. A different kind of hunger now, a methodical hunger, a hunger for completion.
You move to his torso. You start with his chest, biting into the soft flesh, tearing and chewing. The ribs offer a slight resistance, but your teeth are strong, honed for this purpose. You work around them, stripping away the meat, exposing the bone beneath.
You eat slowly, deliberately, working your way down his torso. You consume his stomach, his intestines, his organs. You leave nothing but bone and gristle. The alcove fills with the sounds of your chewing, of your gulping, punctuated by the occasional soft crack of bone.
His legs are next. You eat them methodically, limb by limb. Thigh, calf, foot. You strip them clean, leaving only skeletal remnants. By now, the initial surge of hunger is long gone, replaced by a steady, satiated calm. But you continue. You must ensure nothing is wasted. You must leave no trace.
Finally, only his head remains. His face, once pale and peaceful in unconsciousness, is now contorted in a silent scream. His eyes, still open, stare blankly ahead. You look at him for a moment, a flicker of something…weariness?…passing through you. This is a necessary act, but it is not pleasant.
But it must be done.
You lean closer. You take hold of his jaw, your fingers digging into the cold, clammy skin. You open your mouth wide. And you begin to eat his face.
You start with his cheek, tearing away flesh and muscle. You chew, and gulp, and swallow. You move to his nose, his lips, his chin. You consume his ears, his eyelids, his eyebrows. You leave nothing but bone.
You reach his forehead. You bite down, tearing through skin and skull. You chew, and gulp, and swallow. You consume his brain, the seat of his thoughts, his memories, his very being.
You eat until there is nothing left. Nothing but clean bone, picked clean and polished smooth by your diligent consumption. You swallow the last piece, a small sliver of skull.
The silence in the alcove is profound. Only the faint echo of your own breathing breaks the stillness. You sit back, your body heavy, your stomach full. The hunger is completely gone. Replaced by a deep, almost languid satisfaction.
You look around the alcove. There is no trace of him left. Nothing but the cold stone, the lingering scent of… blood and bones.
You rise to your feet, your movements slow, deliberate. You adjust your jacket, smoothing it down. You are ready to leave. Ready to step back into the world, unnoticed, unchanged. A foreign exchange student. And a predator in a world that does not yet understand the true depths of your nature. You turn and walk away, leaving the empty alcove behind, vanishing back into the city’s indifferent embrace.
End of Act 1
