Page 71 of Insatiable Hunger

Elias Carnell

What the fuck is happening?

My brain short-circuits for a moment as Zeke drops his hand from my throat, leaving me standing here to follow him as he storms down the hall toward my bedroom.

It’s after ten at night. I was about to go to bed when I heard a pounding on the door like he’s the fucking police or something. He’s lucky Katie’s gone for the night, otherwise he’d have a lot of explaining to do.

And his clothes… Where the fuck are his clothes? He’s wearing green and white plaid flannel pajama pants, a pair of what look to be moccasins, and no fucking shirt. His broad shoulders and wide, fuzzy chest on full display for anybody to see.

He left the house like this?

“Are you drunk?” I finally ask after what feels like an eternity of him pacing in front of my bed.

His head whips in my direction as if he forgot I was here altogether. He’s looking at me, but it’s a far-off gaze. With a quick shake of his head, he starts pacing again. Except this time, he speaks.

“I came fromnothing.” He growls the last word. “I was raised in filth, and abuse, and poverty. I. Came. From. Nothing! I turned my life around, gave up the bad shit, built myself from the ground up, and clawed my way out of that situation. And now I make more money than I could ever possibly know what to do with.”

I am so fucking confused.

Is he shaming me for what I do for a living?

Opening my mouth to ask him what he’s getting at, he cuts me off, continuing his tirade.

“And you know what?” His nose scrunches up like he smells sour milk as he huffs a laugh through his nose. “None of it fucking matters. None of it! It can’t fix anything.”

He’s clearly spiraling. I’ve never seen Zeke like this, and I don’t even know how to handle it. How can I when I don’t even know what’s wrong? He’s not making any sense.

“I can’t fix this,” he snarls. “I have all the money and I can’t fixthis.”

“Can’t fix what?” My heart is pounding in my chest, and my ears are starting to ring. I don’t know what’s going on, but the way he’s behaving is making me sick to my stomach. Zeke is one of the most levelheaded people I know.

He’s still pacing. Hands on his hips, head pointed to the ground.

Five steps one way.

Spin.

Five steps the other way.

Repeat.

Before my mind even has a chance to catch up, a deep growl claws its way up his throat as he rips the lamp from my desk, cord yanked from the wall as he chucks it across the room until it shatters right beside my window. If he threw it even three inches to the left, it would’ve most likely broken that too.

Blank expression on his face, Zeke stares at the mess he made. Chest heaving, but otherwise, unmoving.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds go by. Nothing.

A statue.

Until finally…

“WHY?!” he bellows, the sound almost bloodcurdling as he drops to his knees, head falling onto his shoulders, staring up at the ceiling, hands thrusted into his already disheveled hair. “WHY CAN’T I FIX THIS?!”

Glancing around the room, I try to, I don’t know, find the answers on how I can help him. I come up with nothing, so I close the space between us, kneeling before him, and bring my hands up to his face. Moisture pools in my eyes, my vision blurring, at witnessing the sheer strength of emotions Zeke is feeling right now. My chest practically heaves as it mirrors his own. His anguish radiates off him in violent waves, and this undeniable need to make him feel better rages inside my body.

---