Hunger
I saw her standing where the edge of the hill touched the shadows of the sky. And she was holding a heart, devouring it. Her figure, shaped like clay against the fading afternoon light. And I continued to watch her, unable to do otherwise. I was under her gaze, and before I could escape toward the village, I saw her wipe her blood-slicked hands on her apron and retreat into the old house. I ran until the air began to cut my throat with every breath because the road seemed long and tiring, even though it went downhill. I tasted blood in my mouth, as if I were the one devouring that heart, thick blood dripping from my lips. Then I was stopped: Rev. Peter was in front of me, halting my mad rush and grabbed me by the shoulders before I could slip in the mud of the road. “Robert, one does not run this fast when the devil is on your heels.” A sudden, violent shiver hit me, moving the parish priest, who was still holding me by the shoulders as well. His hand came close to my face: “Scorching,...
