Weekly Writing – December 23 2023

Her mother might have been more horrified about the fact she was wasting food than the fact that food came from human veins. Twenty years since moss had started to grow on her mother’s gravestone, twenty three years since she herself had died, yet she still heard that hungry, harried voice in her mind every time she let the last few drops trickle down someone’s neck.
If you’d gone really hungry once in your life, maybe you’d appreciate just how lucky you are to have peas on your plate.
So many times in those twenty three years, she’d gone hungry almost past the point of no return. The point of feeling like nothing but hollow ash clumped onto bone. But she still let the stupid, unlucky young man who’d followed her into that alley hang limp in her arms, watching, along with him, as the last of his blood pattered to the concrete.
The fading question in his eyes was why? She wouldn’t answer. He wouldn’t understand that it was better to be hollow and cold and hungry once and then die than to become an eternally starving thing like her.