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Heathcliff was hungry. He had been for a while now, when the mysterious lady, his master, had pulled him from the well. She spoke of the promise of raising him–in exchange for her death. He should’ve known the deal was too good to be true. While all his meals in Bretus had a high chance of being tampered with all sorts of death inducing substances, at least he could eat.
That was a privilege it seemed his master did not allow. It had been two weeks since he had anything to eat, he managed to find water here and there, as the place they resided was gloomy with rain. When he asked her why, begged on his hands and knees for something–Anything Grander responded with a devilishly calm.
“Soon. But for now this will make you stronger.” Her teeth were sharp, her smile predatory. Heathcliff had the sense she reveled in this, for a reason he didn’t quite understand.
He felt his rational thoughts slip away from him with time. They were replaced with an intense ache in his head, a tremble in his legs, and a constant gnawing at his stomach.
And so, it all started with grass. Sneaking outside and gouging himself on whatever plants he could find. Plants that made him hurl up whatever he managed to consume were no exception on his quest. Then there were the bugs. He hated the way they crunched under his teeth, the way some still squirmed as he tried to get them down as soon as possible.
Their limbs popped when he chewed, the disgusting earthy taste to them. But most of all, he hated the way it was all worth it. However minor, those tiny creatures satiated a portion of his hunger. It went on like this for more than he’d like to admit.
Grander placed a stack of books in front of him. The boy sat at his desk, he looked up at her.
“Stay here, read these. Don’t leave until you’ve finished." She commanded him. She scooted it a little closer to him, the thick spine sliding against the mahogany desk.
Heathcliff looked at her incredulously, “That has to be at least 2000 pages combined…”
“You’d be correct in that assessment.” Grander graced him with an answer.
“But what shall I eat?” He asked, for that was all he cared about now.
Grander thought for a moment, deciding whether or not he would be afforded any sort of mercy. “I suppose I could bring you something.”
Heathcliff felt his heart swell, euphoria ran through his veins. His fingers trembled, and he could’ve sworn his bones almost stopped aching for just one wonderful moment. Was this the elation of being afforded mercy that all the people in Bretus described? The bliss was comparable to when she had first helped him seal the incessant voices away.
Grander turned around without a word, her skirt swishing with the movement. She made her way to the door and it clicked shut behind her, then the sound of a key sealing the lock shut.
Heathcliff got to work, which was harder than necessary due to the way his vision swam as he tried to read. The words became complicated dumps of brushstrokes he just couldn’t comprehend.
After what had to be at least two days, he heard the lock come undone, the door got pushed open and his master stood there. He looked up in hope at her. However, Grander essentially spit on those hopes, ran it through hell and stomped on it.
The thud of a body that was not his own hit the floor. Heathcliff's stare bore holes into the dead man before him. He seemed to be torn apart by the waist, the lower half being God knows where. Blood almost immediately started pooling on the ground, the man’s intestines ever so slowly falling out of where he had been ripped apart.
Grander’s lips parted, “Eat.”
And with that she left.
Heathcliff sat frozen for a long while. He wasn’t a monster, he wouldn’t consume a person. Killing people, which he had not yet done, was different–at least he thinks. Heathcliff was more than prepared to kill someday, he was going to kill his master after all. But eating human flesh? That was wrong. He couldn’t. What besides torture was worse then cannibalism? It had been long decided to be a depraved act, taboo, utterly awful. Cannibalism was- But in that moment, Heathcliff had a realization worse than all of that. No matter how much he pleaded with his aching mind to come up with a reason to dissuade himself from this morally reprehensible act, he couldn't think of anything. Heathcliff took a shaky step towards the man.
Heathcliff kneeled down at the man's side, his eyes were closed shut, Heathcliff took his fingers and pressed them open. He was desperate to see a hint of the man's humanity. Eyes are the window to the soul after all, he longed to see the dead man's soul. He gagged when he opened them to see his eyes had been ripped out of his sockets, the gaping craters where his eyes once were had become a mess of blood that looked more like a thick paste if anything. Heathcliff's heart almost jutted out of his chest when he looked up a little higher, perhaps he should have focused more on the man’s scalp, rather than the lower half he was missing. For the man’s brain had been ripped out, blood spilled out of his head.
Heathcliff felt disgusted with himself. He didn’t consider himself religious despite his ‘holy’ upbringing; however at that moment while he kneeled he felt as if he should beg for the Gods forgiveness. But there was a pressing feeling inside him, one that outweighed the disgust running through him.
Pure unbridled hunger.
Heathcliff stumbled back to the mahogany desk and grabbed a knife that was designed to open letters. He used the sleek knife to carve open the man's chest. A strong sour odor permeated the room in an instant, combined with the squelches as he dug his hands into the man, blood seeped into his fingernails, he pulled out the man's heart. He couldn’t stop himself from immediately gouging himself on the organ, his teeth tore through it, the heart was chewy. He didn’t quite know what he expected. It tasted like copper and steak and nothing all at the same time. Heathcliff had devoured the heart, but the hunger inside him demanded more.
Heathcliff figured it would be best to start out small, he grabbed the man's hand and pulled the skin off his fingers using his teeth. He continued on until he was gnawing on purely bone, his jaw strength wasn't enough to bite through the bones. He continued on stripping the flesh from bones.
When he had finally finished both the man’s hands he slit open the man's wrists, he pulled long stringy veins out of them. Heathcliff swallowed and gagged simultaneously, they reminded him of unchewed worms. Stomach acid burned the back of his throat as he gagged over and over again, his disgust won out over the hunger as he hacked it all up, the man's heart jumped out of his throat. Leaving Heathcliff with an even more present longing to feed.
He peered at the bones that were revealed under the muscle and skin. He ripped the bone out of the man's body, and with all his remaining strength, he slammed it against the floor again and again until it cracked open with a sickening snap. He pried out the bone marrow festering inside and feverishly drank it. Soon all he could hear was the blood roaring in his ears and the stomach-churning slurping as he drank the bone marrow.
He picked up the man's arm, sawing off the muscle on it. The raw meat was still slightly warm, evidence of the life he lived not too long ago. He tore through the bitter meat, the muscles still spasming with the idea of life, Muscle memory was funny like that. In his past life, human meat was described as tasting like pork, or veal. But in that very moment Heathcliff swallowed, it didn’t taste like either.
Heathcliff didn’t feel full, but he knew that was all he could stomach for now. He looked down at the body in front of him, it was mutilated beyond belief. The only way one could tell it was a person was the skin still pressed onto the face. But as the boy stared at the body in front of him it was no longer a person. Simply a means to prevent his own demise.
A swish of air from an opened door rushed at him, the familiar clatter of his master's footsteps entered the room.
Once again, he looked up at her. But there was no hope in his eyes. All there was was blood dripping from his mouth.
“You’ve made such a mess.” She reprimanded. Grander pulled a linen handkerchief out of her dress pocket, she dabbed at the blood surrounding her disciples mouth, the act felt foreign. She patted him on the head, “At least you haven't completely messed up. If you’d like to eat again, just inform me.”
Heathcliff never wanted to do that again; but he never wanted to be hungry again.
And he never was hungry again.