Page 15 of Monster’s Obsessive Hunger

THORRIN

T he clearing is empty, but the echo of her laughter remains.

It is a phantom sound that vibrates in my bones, a painful, beautiful memory that leaves me raw and disoriented.

She left without a word, her departure a quiet, swift retreat from the overwhelming emotion I showed her.

I stand frozen where she left me, my claws still buried deep in the flesh of the pine tree, the rough bark a grounding pain against my palms. The white-hot light has receded, leaving behind a turbulent, aching void.

I feel hollowed out, scoured clean by a feeling so intense it has no name.

The physical hunger, which had been a distant ache, now reasserts itself with a vengeance.

It is a familiar, gnawing pain in my gut, a demand for blood and flesh that has been the driving rhythm of my existence for centuries.

I know I need to hunt. I need to kill something, to feel the warmth of fresh blood on my tongue, to remind myself of the simple, brutal creature I am.

The complex, agonizing dance of emotion I share with Lyssa is unsustainable.

I need to ground myself in the old ways, in the certainty of the kill.

I pull my claws from the tree, splinters of wood clinging to the talons, and stalk into the forest. My movements are silent, born of ancient instinct.

My senses, sharpened by a hunger that is now both physical and spiritual, scan the surrounding darkness.

The forest, which has become a backdrop for my meetings with her, now reverts to its true form: a hunting ground.

A landscape of predator and prey. I fall into the familiar patterns of the stalk, my body remembering the lethal grace my mind has begun to forget.

I find a trail easily, the scent of dae heavy on the cold night air.

They are close. A small herd, judging by the tracks.

I follow, the hunger a low, crimson burn in my chest. This is what I am. This is what I do.

I find the dae limping close to a ravine, separated from its herd.

One of its hind legs is injured, leaving a faint drag line in the snow.

It is young, its scent a mixture of fresh greenery and the clean, intoxicating perfume of fear.

It is the perfect prey: weak, isolated, and unaware of the true predator that stalks it from the shadows.

The hunt should be a simple, satisfying affair.

A return to the natural order of things.

I corner it against the rock face of the ravine, cutting off its escape.

It turns to face me, its large, dark eyes wide with terror.

Its body trembles, a fine, violent shudder that I can see even in the dim moonlight.

This is the moment I usually savor—the final, beautiful surrender of prey to its inevitable fate.

The scent of its fear should be an exquisite appetizer, a promise of the satisfaction to come.

I raise a clawed hand, the talons gleaming, and prepare for the killing blow. My muscles tense, every predatory instinct I possess screaming at me to strike, to feed, to silence my want, my need.

But I hesitate.

I look at the terrified creature, at its trembling form and wide, pleading eyes, and I feel…

nothing. The anticipated surge of predatory satisfaction does not come.

The thought of its blood, which should be a siren’s call to the curse, is bland, unappealing.

It is not what I want. It is not what I need .

The craving for Lyssa—for the impossible, agonizing beauty of her laughter, for the simple, world-altering warmth of her presence—is so absolute, so all-consuming, that it has rendered all other forms of sustenance tasteless.

Killing this creature would be a hollow, mechanical act, as satisfying as eating dust.

With a low growl of disgust that is aimed entirely at myself, I lower my hand.

The dae stares at me, frozen in a state of terrified confusion.

I have broken the fundamental rule of our world.

I have shown it mercy. The act is so alien, so contrary to my own nature, that it leaves me feeling nauseous and disoriented.

I turn away from the creature, and with a final, frightened bleat, it scrambles away into the underbrush, disappearing into the night.

I am left alone, the scent of its lingering fear a mockery of the predator I am supposed to be.

I am a hunter who has lost the will to kill.

I return to my lair, the hollowness inside me now a vast, echoing cavern.

I am starving, but my hunger is no longer a simple, physical thing that can be sated with a kill.

It is a complex, soul-deep craving for a single, impossible human.

The silence of the cave is a physical weight, pressing in on me from all sides. It is unbearable.

I retreat to my sleeping alcove and try to fill the silence with the only sound that matters.

I mimic her voice, whispering her name into the darkness.

“Lyssa.” The sound is a perfect echo, but it is empty, a ghost of the real thing.

It provides no comfort, only a sharper awareness of what I am missing.

I try her laughter next, but the beautiful, bright sound coming from my monstrous form is a grotesque parody that makes the ache worse.

A frantic, desperate need builds within me—a need to make her presence here permanent, to anchor her to this place, to me.

It is a possessive, primal urge, the instinct of a creature staking a claim.

My gaze falls upon a sharpened femur from a long-ago kill, a tool I use for scraping hides.

I take it in my trembling hand and move to the stone wall beside my sleeping furs, the wall she faces when she sits with me.

My claws, which can rend flesh from bone, are clumsy as I begin to carve.

The scrape of bone on stone is a harsh, grating sound in the stillness.

I work with a feverish intensity, my hands shaking with the force of my obsession.

I etch two simple letters into the ancient rock.

L. And beside it, a K. Her initials, for the family name she spoke of in one of her sad, beautiful stories. Lyssa Kaelen.

The two letters are stark and white against the dark gray stone, a permanent scar on the heart of my home.

The moment I am finished, the frenzy leaves me, replaced by a wave of cold, profound regret.

I stare at the carving, at the evidence of my obsession.

What have I done? I have desecrated my own home with my need for her.

This is no longer just a lair. It is becoming a shrine.

And I am its sole, pathetic worshiper. A monster who has forgotten how to hunt, but is learning, with terrifying speed, how to love.