Hunger, Pt. 4

He stepped through the door and pushed past her, his eyes moving around the walls of her apartment, taking everything in as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Did you redecorate? I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“I haven’t changed anything,” she said softly. “Can we please–”

“Are you sure? I could have sworn there used to be a vase and some flowers here. Or was that in the foyer? Or… Oh, wait. You don’t have a foyer. Never mind.”

He glanced back over his shoulder at her, his eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin smirk. Despite herself, she felt anger rise up within her. She was desperate, but he was a monster, a real monster, and she wasn’t going to let him take joy from her suffering. “Why are you–”

“So, shall we begin?”

Her shoulders slumped. Her anger left her like wine spilling from a broken glass. Like blood flowing out of a dying man. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “Okay.”

He walked over to the couch and sat down, set the bag next to him. The smirk was still on his face. It almost never left his face when he was in her apartment.

He opened the bag and pulled out his tools: a hypodermic needle, a length of rubber tubing, a few vials of clear fluid with masking tape labels identifying them. He looked up, his smirk now a toothy grin. “Come here. You want it, don’t you?”

She sat down next to him without saying something. Her tongue darted across her lips. They parted slightly and he held up his hand. “No, no. You know what I need first.”


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