Page 5 of Monster's Obsessive Hunger
“When I was a little girl,” she says. “I found a pavo with a broken wing in our garden.
One of the iridescent songbirds with the turquoise eyes had fallen from its nest.”
I close my eyes, not needing them for this. I focus all of my being on the sound of her words, on the delicate emotional currents flowing beneath them. I can taste the memory as she speaks it—a faint sweetness of childhood innocence, the gentle ache of empathy for a wounded creature, the quiet pride of nurturing something back to health.
“I made a small splint for its wing from a twig and a strip of cloth,” she continues, her voice growing stronger as she losesherself in the telling. “I kept it in a box by my bed and fed it crushed berries and water from a spoon. My mother said it would probably die, but I refused to believe her.”
As she speaks, something new happens inside me. The ache begins to subside, replaced by a gentle, spreading warmth. It is not the fleeting, feverish satisfaction of a blood meal. This is a deeper kind of satiation, a feeling of being filled, not just physically, but existentially.
I feel the burning core within shift. The hungry crimson softens, brightens, and after centuries, a flicker of pure, warm yellow blooms in the center of the glow. The feeling is so new, so utterly foreign, that it is almost painful. It is the color of contentment. And it is the most beautiful thing I have ever known.
7
LYSSA
Astrange new rhythm takes hold of my life. By day, I am a ghost in my own home, a phantom moving through the familiar rooms of my childhood. I perform my chores with mechanical precision, my hands knowing the motions of kneading dough or mending a tunic even when my mind is a thousand miles away, deep in the frozen heart of the forest. The world of the village has become a stage, and I am a reluctant actor, speaking my lines and hitting my marks while I wait for the curtain to fall. The only real moments are the ones that come after sunset.
Each night, I return to the clearing. I wear a thick cloak now, a practical concession to the mountain’s biting cold, and my steps are no longer hesitant with terror but steady with a strange sense of purpose. He is always there, waiting in the shadows as if he has not moved since I left. The first few nights after I told him that first simple story, our meetings are stiff, a bizarre negotiation between two alien species. I tell him tales I learned at my mother’s knee—the fable of the Minotaur Agros, whose pride trapped him in a paradise prison, or the legend of the fourdark elf lords who founded the infamous Dark Market on the continent of Rach.
I watch, fascinated, as His chest shifts and changes with the emotions in the stories. When I speak of the noble minotaur Milth and his blessing from the Lady of Light, a soft, warm yellow pulses in Thorrin's ribs. When I recount the tale of the Whore of Vhoig and her bloody, tragic revenge, a flicker of somber blue darkens the glow. I am learning his language, not of words, but of light. My initial, heart-stopping terror has begun to recede, replaced by a kind of detached, scientific curiosity. I feel like an explorer charting a new and dangerous land. I am studying him, trying to understand the rules of his existence, just as he is studying mine. He never pushes, never demands more than I am willing to give. He simply waits, a patient, skeletal silhouette against the snow, and when I arrive, he listens.
On the fourth night, something shifts. I run out of fables. The impersonal shield of folklore is gone, and he simply waits, his silence a profound, unspoken question. The crimson in his chest begins to pulse with a low, hungry rhythm, and I know the hollowness is returning for him. I find myself speaking without meaning to, the words a quiet, aching confession in the cold night air.
“My mother was a healer,” I say. “She knew every plant in this forest. She could make a poultice to draw the fever from a sick child or a tea to soothe an old man’s aching bones.”
As I speak, I realize that no one has let me talk about her like this for years. In the village, any mention of her name is met with averted eyes and quick, pitying murmurs. They treat her memory like a sickness, something to be quarantined and forgotten. But Thorrin… he just listens. His skull tilts, his lost eyes fixed on my face, and he absorbs every word as if it werethe most precious sustenance. The attention is so absolute, so undivided.
“She used to say that the forest has a soul,” I continue, the memories spilling out now, a river breaking through a dam of unshed tears. “That if you listen closely enough, you can hear it breathe. She taught me which mushrooms were safe to eat and which would kill you, which roots could be ground into medicine and which flowers held poison in their pretty petals.”
I talk for what feels like hours, painting a portrait of the woman I lost in words and memories. And then, without meaning to, I begin to talk about myself. About what it’s like to live in a town that only sees you as a tragedy. About the crushing loneliness of being surrounded by people but feeling utterly, completely unheard. The words are a torrent, a release of five years of pent-up sorrow and isolation. Thorrin remains silent throughout, a perfect, unmoving statue of shadow. But his light is a living thing, shifting from soft blue to warm, empathetic gold as I speak. I feel completely and utterly seen.
A week passes, then another. My nightly visits become the anchor of my existence. The walk to the clearing, which was once a journey into the heart of terror, now feels like a pilgrimage. There is a strange comfort in the familiar path, in the knowledge that he will be there waiting for me. I no longer flinch when he emerges from the shadows. The sight of his skeletal form is still jarring, a stark reminder of what he is, but the fear it once inspired has been replaced by something far more complex. A kind of fondness.
I find myself looking forward to our time together, to the quiet intensity of his attention. I learn to read the subtle shifts in his posture—the way his claws clench when a story is tense, the slight tilt of his skull when a concept confuses him. He is still a monster, but he is my monster. He is the keeper of my stories, the silent witness to my grief.
I tell myself I am doing this for closure, that this strange communion is a way of processing my mother’s loss, of finally understanding the mystery that has haunted my life. But in the quiet moments, as I lie in bed waiting for the sun to set, I know it has become more than that. I am not just drawn to the mystery he represents; I am drawn tohim. To the profound loneliness that radiates from him like the cold from a glacier. To the impossible paradox of a predator who craves poetry instead of blood.
Tonight, as I finish a story about a childhood adventure by the river, a laugh escapes me. It’s a real laugh, bright and unburdened, the first one I can remember in a long time. The effect on Thorrin is immediate. His light flares a brilliant, startled yellow, and he takes a half-step back as if struck. I fall silent, the laugh dying in my throat, suddenly afraid I have done something wrong. But he only stares, his glowing heart pulsing with a light that looks like pure, unadulterated wonder. In that moment, watching him react not with hunger but with something that looks like awe, I finally admit the truth to myself. I am not scared of him anymore. I might even be… starting to care for him. The thought is terrifying, a madness far greater than chasing a ghost’s voice in the woods. This is no longer about closure. It’s about connection. And I am walking willingly into the heart of a beautiful, terrifying new danger.
8
THORRIN
Her laughter is the color of a sunrise I can no longer remember. It is a bright, warm yellow that cuts through the oppressive gray of my existence, and when the sound fills the clearing, the light in my own chest flares in response. She is telling me another story tonight, something about a clumsy attempt to bake a pie for a village festival that ended with more flour on her than in the bowl. Her face is animated, her eyes sparkling in the lantern light, and the joy radiating from her is a flavor so potent, so pure, that it makes my ancient, hollow bones ache with a forgotten kind of want.
For weeks, I have been hoarding the sound of her laughter. I collect each note, each breathless giggle, each full-throated peal of amusement. In the oppressive stillness of my lair, I practice. I replay the sounds, shaping my own vocal cords, which have produced nothing but growls and stolen whispers for centuries, to match her perfect, living melody. It is a secret, obsessive art. A way for me to hold onto the warmth of her presence long after she has retreated to the safety of her village.
Tonight, as her story concludes and another genuine, unburdened laugh escapes her, I do something I have not dared before. I give the sound back to her.
The laughter that rumbles from my chest is not my own gravelly rasp. It is hers. A perfect, note-for-note mimicry, infused with the echo of her own joy. The sound is uncanny, a beautiful, impossible flower blooming from the throat of a monster.
The effect on her is immediate and devastating. The smile vanishes from her face, replaced by a look of profound shock that quickly curdles into something like violation. She freezes, her body going rigid, her eyes wide with a new kind of fear. This is not the simple terror of a predator revealed; this is the horror of seeing a piece of her own soul reflected in the empty eyes of the abyss. The warmth in the clearing evaporates, leaving a sudden, chilling cold.
I feel a strange, unfamiliar pang. Regret. The mimicry was an act of selfish desperation, an attempt to feel the joy she projects so effortlessly. I wanted to taste it, to hold it inside myself for just a moment. But in doing so, I have stolen it from her. I have reminded her that every beautiful thing she offers me, I can only ever twist into a monstrous echo. The yellow light sputters, dimming to a confused, anxious green. The silence that falls between us is heavier, more profound, than any that has come before.
She stares at me for a long time, her face a pale mask in the moonlight. The fear is there, but beneath it, I see the flicker of the same defiant curiosity that brought her back here night after night. She is processing, analyzing, trying to understand the impossible thing that just happened. When she finally speaks, her voice is a strained whisper.
“Why?” The word is small, but it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken questions. Why the mimicry? Why the obsession?Why me?
