Carnivore

Author's note: Heads up gang, there's some body horror in this one

Previously.

She twitches in her sleep. She fidgets and rolls and moans, reaching for something that isn't there. Her hands open and close, grasping at air to try and hold herself in. She's so small. A hand runs through her hair, pushing it out of her eyes, keeping her forehead warm. She's cold, so very cold, the heat leeched right out of her. Did we do that?

Let's stoke the fire. Let's study the 4 walls, the way they squeeze tightly on our brain. Would that there was one of me. Would that would be simpler? But the fire roars, trapped by marble mantle and a brick chute channeling the smoke upwards, upwards towards the sky and freedom. It's like us, sealed in by rocks. Picture our history, our long duration. The tomb seals itself by the hands of the victims, stone binding flesh. Seal the coffins lest the cries of the ghosts drive you mad.

Whoops. Too late.

Oh, but the knowledge tastes so good. We run our tongues down the spines of books to get a feel for them. The authors are trapped within, vulnerable victims just waiting for the caress of teeth. Humans touch the divine but they don't feel it the way we do. They don't desecrate it the way we do.

Stability is a precious resource, carefully cultivated. What are we? Who knew? Surely the girl would understand. Surely she sees by now. No, there's only one way for this to end. The human response to pain is to break down. Ours is the same way, a dark reflection. We are the dark reflection of humanity. We are madness personified. We are hungry.

There's a half empty pizza box by the door. Shake it out, study the remains. Plunge your fist through it, hand sharp as a blade. Penetrate its heart. It's a living creature, bleeding out. It's screaming. It's laughing because you don't know anymore. We're in pieces. We know that, right? The cat stands at attention on the bed. It attends because that is what it does. It is a part of us and it obeys.

Study the girl, that poor sweet innocent girl. Run your hands along her back, her bumpy shoulders, her rigid spine, her curvy hips. She's gorgeous. We've never seen a more perfect human. Even her imperfections suit her, the little bumps and scars implying a past.

Who would ever know? Who would ever care? She doesn't have a name. She doesn't have a past. She's one of us. She looks delicious. Our tongue is wetting out lips, a parody of desire. Our teeth lengthen, nice and sharp. We want to kiss her. We want to devour her. Why not both?

Come on then. Let's bring her home.

The moment of impact is all you feel. The knife through your head, it sits there. It's left an impression on reality, on your perception. You can feel it in the aching head you had as a child, in the sleepless nights, in the blind panic when you're in crowds. It drives deeper into you. It's a nail, a scar, a tearing in two. It's all you think about it.

But where go the shadows?

"Do you think flesh is a trap we can ever escape?"

I laughed at that, because the answer seemed obvious. "Of course! Look at me." I swirled around the cave, letting my form extend and flow.

The child studied me. It was bound, of course, a solid living thing. "How?"

"You die, silly," I responded.

"I don't want to die."

"You'll get over it."

"No," said the child. "No, I won't. Did you want to die?"

I considered the question. How had I died? "I don't know," I said.

Frustrated, the child kicked a rock. "Dumb ghosts," it said. "Useless to me."

"Hey," I said. "Don't be rude or I'll haunt you."

"Nah. My mama's a witch. She'll kick your ass if you try."

I raised my voice a little, upset the child would lie. "No! Witches have to be nice to ghosts. It's the rules."

"Which rules?"

"Nah, Witch Rules."

It scoffed. "You're making that up."

"No, it's true! My friend told me all about it and she's a witch too."

"Ghosts don't have friends, silly."

"We were friends when I was alive, then."

"You were never alive." Its voice was suddenly so serious, so level.

"Yeah, I was."

"Violet," said the child. It stared at me, eyes wide and lips tight. "Who were your parents?"

"What?" I responded, confused.

"Violet. Where were you born?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Violet. Do you have any friends?"

"Yeah, of course I do."

"Violet. Do you have a name?"

I laughed, in a hesitant scared way. "That's a dumb question, right?"

"Violet. There were flowers."

"There were flowers," I repeated.

"Why flowers?"

"I don't..." I hesitated, unsure. "I don't remember?"

"Violet. If you do not remember, did it ever happen?"

"I think so? It feels right."

"Violet. Name that feeling."

It felt wrong. It felt violently jarringly wrong. The feeling was old, familiar, nameless. It held me tightly, wrapped me around it. It was as thought the feeling was real and I was but a memory of it. "It doesn't have a name."

"But you are the feeling?" asked the child.

"Yeah," I said. That was a conundrum.

"Violet." said the child. "Violet. Violet. Violet."

Its voice was too loud. It hurt my ears, my form. I fluttered like a butterfly, the cave too small. "What?" I yelled.

"Violet." For a long moment, everything was still. Blood blossomed from the child's chest, wounds opening. "Run."

I didn't hesitate. There was a light down the tunnel and I shot for it, as fast as my mind could take me. I burst out into the daylight as the cave snapped shut behind me, a giant mouth trying to catch me.

But I was up, I was in the air. I was laughing a little. The sun glowed overhead, scorching me a little. Ghosts weren't supposed to be out during the day. Ghosts weren't supposed to do a lot of things. I suppose if I was already breaking one rule, I might as well break all of them.

The ground hissed angrily, magma bubbling over the surface. The sun hated me but the moon was concerned. The moon knew what was coming. The moon knew that I was wasting time, ignoring the ways chains and hands twisted out of crevices deep. They stretched for me mindlessly, rolling over the landscape. I fled but they followed. We raced each other, me against the world itself.

And the voice in the back of my head asked if this was right.

But the thing about duty is that you can't fall in love. The thing about duty is that you have to obey it, day after day. You tend to them as a parent, as a lover. But you must remain distant. You are not a part of the world. You are something else. You don't follow their rules. You can't.

What happens if you do?

We're snakes coiled in a tight dance, wrapping around a stick to show our meaning. Your teeth find my neck and slip in so slowly. I'll scream if it makes it easier. I'll beg for more. Your hands find mine, pinning me to the bed. Our lips meet, bloodstained and reckless, tongues clashing with wild abandon. You're so soft, so strong, so smooth. Your skin is burning hot, almost scorching me as it sets my nerves alight, my body demanding more of you. I'll never have enough.

This is how I die, isn't it?

The pleasure is building. steadily. In between gasps, I find my words. "Is this how it's done?"

The motion freezes, the moment shattering. The connection is gone. We're lying on the bed, perfectly still, both of us staring upwards. "What?"

"Is this how you eat ghosts?"

"I don't eat ghosts."

"Then what are you doing to me?"

"I don't..." Ram hesitates for a long moment. I roll my head sideways and study their profile, silhouetted by the streetlights. "I don't know."

"Ram," I said. "Ram, it's okay. I already know."

They stay silent, so distant, so far away. I can feel the darkness gnawing at my mind.

"Just tell me, please. I need to hear you say it."

They roll back towards me, all one thousand of their glowing eyes staring at me hungrily.

"What am I?"

The question hangs in the air for a long moment before they reply. "You're a part of us. We lost you when we were wounded."

The wrongness solidified. I waited for them to finish.

"You never existed. There is no Violet. You have no family, no past, no name. And you drift in and out of stability because you're too small to survive on your own."

I struggled to keep my voice calm. "You're not doing much better."

A single laugh, unamused and performative. "Yes, we are. Besides, we're small too. We're putting ourself back together. It's a slow and hard process."

"And that includes me."

"Yes."

"And that always includes fucking the pieces?"

"No, that's..." They trail off, unsure. "You're different."

"What are we?"

"It's hard to explain. You can kind of feel it, right?"

I could. I could sense the edges of it, the shape we were supposed to take. There was a hole in the world and we filled it. We belonged together. "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I can."

"But I have an apartment. I took classes. I have hobbies." Anger started creeping into my voice. "I had a life!"

"What's the difference between a dream and truth?" Ram sighed. "Is it perception or something more?"

"Bullshit-ass philosophy."

"Yeah, maybe."

Time ticked by as we considered each other.

"What now?" I asked, finally.

"We could fuck again?" There was a hint of hope in their voice.

"Dumbass. I'm mad at you."

"You're mad at you then!" There was definitely amusement in their voice.

"No, because I don't accept it! I'm me. And besides," I roll closer, letting my back curl against their sides. "You like me."

Their hand curls around my front, caressing my check and then wandering down my chest. "Yeah. Yeah, We do. You're different."

I close my eyes, muscles relaxing. "Yeah, I am."

Ram's hand moves slowly, teasingly, sending little tingles radiating through my body. It's warm and comforting and arousing.

A little dreamily, I ask, "what's it like?"

They murmur confusedly in response.

"What's it like being so complex?"

"It's like being small, but a lot? We don't know if that makes sense."

"When you say "we", you mean all of you?"

"Yeah."

I move my hand up to pull theirs against the curve of my breasts. "How many are there?"

"We don't know. It changes all time. We come and we go."

"So let me go."

Their grip tightens, their head pressing against the back of my neck. "We can't."

"Why not?"

"You have something we need."

Their lips touch my neck and I moan for a moment. "What?"

"We don't know. You took that memory when you left."

"I didn't do it on purpose." I shift backwards, pressing into them, enjoying their weight against me.

"We know."

"And if you took me, what would that mean?"

They pulled me tighter, hands exploring my body. "Like this?"

I sigh contentedly. "No. If you ate me. What then?"

"We'd be one again. Part of the whole."

"But what happens to me?"

"We don't understand."

"Not as a whole, but ahh," I gasp as their dozens of probing fingers work in tighter. "Individually. Surely the individuals understand, right?"

Ram stopped moving. They were as a statue, wrapped around me dozens of times, a perfect cage.

"Ram?"

"We don't-"

And then the voices started, thousands of different voices all at once. "You wouldn't exist."

"You would exist."

"No sex?"

"EAT HER!"

"Picture a grave."

"It's like being alone."

"It's like everything."

"It's like being held."

"It's lonely."

"It's friendly."

"Don't do it. Run."

"Why flowers?"

The voices started to go faster and faster, overlapping.

"Ram," I said.

I couldn't make out any of the individual phrases any more.

"Ram!" I yelled.

They came back to themselves.

I twisted my head a little to catch their face in the corner of my eye. "You're lonely."

"Yeah."

"Why don't you have any friends?"

"Can't."

I kissed their neck. "You got me."

They said nothing, merely murmuring sleepily.

"I don't want to be eaten."

"Yeah, you do."

I pulled back a little. "No."

Ram's eyes were closed, their face frowning. "It's why you can't get me out of your head. It's why you're pulled in. You know you need me, that without me you'll disintegrate. I don't..." They hesitated. "Violet, I don't want this any more than you. But it's necessary."

"No it isn't." Then I paused because something occurred to me. "I."

"What?"

"You said "I"."

I could feel the confusion in the way their hands shifted slightly.

"You said I. But there's multiple, right? What do you mean "I"?"

"Violet."

My voice was quiet, sad, defeated. "There are parts of you that want to eat me." It hung in the air, not a question.

They rolled away, breaking the cuddle. Staring upwards into the darkness, their whisper barely broke the silence. "Yeah."

I could feel something running through my veins, ice cold. It was somewhere between panic and anger. It was a maddening drive to be free at all costs. "I don't want to."

"You don't have a choice!" they snapped.

"So what is this? What's the point of any of this?"

"We don't know!"

I sat there silently.

"Please," they said. I studied their silhouette for a moment. I wasn't sure if they could see the faces I was making or not.

"Promise me," I said. "Promise me you won't eat me."

"We..." they trailed off. "We can't."

"Yeah, well." I stood, swinging my legs off the bed. "You're gonna have to catch me first."

True to his word, the receptionist had arranged for the bellboy to deliver bags, a pair of backpacks. I grabbed one randomly. My jacket hung on the hook. I grabbed that too.

"Violet," they said. They looked so small, so weak, so wounded.

But I interrupted whatever they were about to say next. "I don't want to die." Our eyes met, equally determined.

And then the door shut and I was gone.

Imagine what it takes to carve a mountain to a pebble. Imagine the dedication, the patience. How many years must you stand there, chisel in hand, applying perfection to every delicate strike? Working magic is like that. It defies explanation, conceptualization. Wizardry is an art to be exploited by the skilled. It demands patience and care. It demands blood.

Davis Pendragon knew this well. It had almost been an act of self-flagellation the way he spent several long days in his basement carving up a god. The tools of the wizard were many: magical staves, mystical gems, ancient runes, powerful candles, and sharp knives. He used them all, sloughing pieces off his victim. It was somewhere between an act of worship and vengeance. It was desperation.

It was why he now held a piece of the god in his hands.

It had taken years, long and hard years to try and find a weapon that would work on such an abomination. The hunt lasted for months. And yet, once the bulk of it was there, trapped in his basement? It taken merely hours to dismember it. To analyze it. To appreciate it.

Yes, Davis Pendragon reckoned he now understood the monster far better than any other wizard, living or dead. And oh, what power it held. What knowledge it was. How truly beautiful it was. The others were wrong to fear it, wrong to fight it. He held a chunk of it in his hands, pulsating and dark, dripping with blood and shadow.

He considered the destruction of his cabal, his house, his wealth, his friends. He smiled. He raised it to his face.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell how to drink the rivers. Tell me how to consume the forests. Tell me how to devour the sun."

And the god opened wide. Oh, what glorious secrets it showed him. Oh, what wondrous things it had seen.

Oh yes. It was worth it.

The cold was like a punch to the face. The stars were hiding behind a blanket of clouds illuminated by the ceaseless lights of the city. There was something hanging in the air, something dark and menacing. An undercurrent of fear. I supposed that was natural. I could feel the madness creeping in again around the edges. Ram was right. Having them around did stabilize me. Without that, it was so tempted to slip away, to slip out of it.

I didn't understand. How could I not exist? I could move and breathe and think, right? What more did I need? I plunged into high park at a light job, intending to vanish down the trails. It was dark. The streetlights here were insufficient. Something caught in my throat and I thought it was just the shock of the exercise, the stress of the evening. But the sob forced its way out insistently and I realized I was crying.

Nah, fuck them. Fuck that. I grimaced, wiping the tear from my eye. Fuck that shit. I'm me. I'm Violet. Not dealing with anyone who says otherwise, anyone thinks it's necessary for me to die. You hear me? Fuck that. It doesn't matter, I told my clenched fists. It doesn't matter, I told my watering eyes. It doesn't matter, I told my breaking heart.

Surely the timing was off? I'd met them before I was attacked, right? On the subway that night? They had to be wrong.

The memory hit me so hard, I stumbled sideways off the path. My hand found tree bark, rough and centring, but my eyes were elsewhere. I was in the subway, staring at a wizard. He'd stolen something, something important to a friend. He was so small, so weak. Me moved to attack and I just laughed and then he was gone and I was licking my lips. The crunch of bone was delectable.

My hand thudded against the tree once, hard. I didn't even register the pain. It was all flooding together, my grip rapidly fading. I could feel my hand sinking into the tree, bark replaced by skin, blood pouring from the gaping wound I carved. I just didn't care. What did it matter if I had no name? What did it matter? I could feel the emptiness of the apartment keenly. It wasn't home. It was for someone else, someone distant. There were flowers.

"Hello little lost ghost," said the spider, descending from the upper branches on a gossamer thread.

I let my back hit the tree and sank down it slowly.

The spider's voice was gentle and kind. "You seem scared, little one."

I raised my hand to consider it. My palm split in two, opening into a maw full of sharp teeth, grinning hungrily.

"Please talk to me, little lost ghost?" It began to lay threads around me, binding me gently to the tree.

I moved sharply, tearing them and sending the spider swinging wildly. "Why bother?"

"Oh dear. Have I upset you?"

"I..." I hesitated. "No. But why waste your time? Why not find someone real?"

The spider laughed. "Why would you say that?"

"I'm not real. They told me." I stared at the spider, watching its tangled legs and bulbous body. "But you knew that."

"If you're not real, then who am I speaking with?"

"I dunno, a memory?"

"Oh, you are clever," it purred.

I sighed. "What are you?"

"Oh, my little lost ghost. That's awfully rude."

"Don't really care."

"Well!" It sounded a little indignant and also amused at the same time. "I suppose that's fair. In that case, I'll have you know that I'm a spider."

"I don't meet many spiders that talk."

"Do you meet many spiders?"

"A few."

"I thought you weren't real."

I laughed bitterly. "Touche, spider."

"Please, dear. Call me mother."

"That's weird. No."

It tutted. "Do you have a mother?"

I considered. "Not that I can recall." I felt like I should be able to recall, like it was just there, just out of reach. That murky fog of my early life, that dark cloud hanging over me. But I couldn't.

"Then why not me?"

"I think you have to earn motherhood. You can't just show up."

The spider smiled, although not in any way that I could describe. "You're very perceptive for someone who claims to be imaginary, little lost ghost."

"Thank you."

"I think you're too focused on reality."

"Yeah?"

"You're obsessed with the idea of objective truth because you think you can prove things with it. But the world is not so. I skip between the layers as you do. But where you fight them, I am but a leaf on the wind."

"The reality," I let the words roll off my tongue slowly and forcefully. "The reality is that either I go back to be eaten by a monster or I dissolve in the wind. That's the reality. Those are my options."

"So wise and yet." It swung around the tree, doing a little loop-de-loop in the air. "Missing the obvious."

"And what's that?"

"Just because you weren't real doesn't mean you aren't now. Just because you haven't made choices before doesn't mean you can't now. It's never too late, little lost ghost. Do you remember what I told you?"

"You said to find a knife."

"No." It hovered in front of my face, mandibles twitching eagerly. "I told you to hold a knife."

Without breaking eye contact, I pulled my knife out of my pocket and held it out. Gently, I sliced the thread above the spider and it fell into my lap, perching on my knee.

"You do have more options, little lost ghost."

"Like what?"

"There are blades that pierce not the skin, but the mind. There are a few in this very city.

I frowned, thoughtful.

"Splinter the beast. Free yourself from it!" The spider's voice was delighted, almost enraptured.

"No."

"No?"

"I..." I hesitated. The words were there. They were on the tip of my tongue. "I love them." The statement was soft, gentle. It floated around me, solid sound wrapping my arms in protective fabric.

"As does the beaten dog."

I could feel tears welling up again. I could feel my bones beginning to blister and dissolve, teeth threatening to tear through my flesh. "Yeah, well. It's not like you get to decide."

"Oh?"

My hand calm down hard, my palm making a loud slap against my knee. "Yeah. Real tired of being told what to do."

I lifted my hand. Weakly, the shattered remains of the spider spoke. "Idiot. Why flowers?" it said.

"Fuck off," I replied. Without hesitation, I tossed it behind me and stood.

The park was empty and dark. The sky was full. It was staring at me, angry eyes dotting it, pupils twitching and crying. And the moon descended from the sky and I laughed and wrapped my arms around it.

The room was like a crime scene, a murder committed with an artillery cannon. The walls were washed red with blood, with the dripping innards of the victim. Fragments of bone dotted the brick, half embedded and angry. It stank of blood, piss, and sweat. The victim, the half shredded remains of their body, lay upon the bed. They had no face, no upper torso, no left arm. Organs hung out, draped from the four posters, from the very air itself. Their teeth had been carefully pulled out with a precision unbecoming the rest of the scene. Each had been washed, polished, brushed clean. It was almost loving, the care that had gone into running a file along them to shape them perfectly.

The teeth sat there on the floor, glistening white on red, a perfect smile.

There were two cops outside, retching. Hands clutched to their faces, they struggled not to vomit, not to think about what was in that room. They leaned against the tight walls of the corridor and fought against the weakness of their biology. It was a losing battle.

The air crackled with radio and phone, with the sounds of help coming. Because help would always be coming. Because something like this required help. The cops recovered slowly as they waited. The building itself was silent, empty. Everyone had been escorted out.

Everyone but the child who danced past them now. Carefree, he skipped past them, opening the door and slipped into the room. They hesitated for just a moment too long before deciding to follow.

The room was as bad as they remembered, if not worse. The stench was oppressive, brutal. The sight was even worse. Hands on mouths, they pushed through and saw the child sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling. It had too many teeth.

One of the cops moved to speak. He got nothing out because his tongue was too big for his mouth, too big for his throat. He gasped, choking, air locked out of his lungs, his body.

"Nah," said the kid, dismissively. "You should make it hurt more."

Like a puppet on strings, the other cop whirled to face the choking one. His hand flashed out, straight through flesh and bone, clutching tightly around the heart. Fingers straining, he squeezed, blood pouring out of the chest cavity. Their tongues sloshed out of their mouths, their eyes dripping with blood, their fingernails peeling off. With a wet pulpy splash, the heart exploded, showering the two of them in goop. Neither of the cops flinched. Neither screamed.

"I dunno," said the kid. "Lacks imagination. Kind of obvious. Where's the passion? What's the message?"

The heartless cop collapsed into a heap, slowly melting into a puddle. The still standing one turned to face the kid, face blank. Robotically, he spoke. "What do you want?"

"Same thing you want, babes."

His hand twisted into a sharp claw, the cop raised it menacingly. "No riddles."

"Aw, don't be like that! I just wanted some help doing something fun."

The cop whimpers, his skin beginning to peel off from the top of his head, leaving exposed muscles to slough off bone. His voice remains calm despite the panic in his eyes. "What?"

The kid laughed, smiling wide. "So, stop me if you've heard this one before, but word on the street is the keeper's taken a bad blow. Cracked its pretty little head right open." He drew each word out, enjoying the feel of the sounds in his mouth. "All those precious little thoughts just leaking all over the city. And I was thinking, you an' me, we could, ah, how do you say?" It grinned so widely that its lips touched its ears. "Colour this city our own way."

"Paint the town red," said the cop.

"What?" said the child.

The expression is," said the cop, "paint the town red."

The child considered the walls, splattered with crimson. "So you're in?"

The cop's eyes burst, leaving dark and empty sockets. "Swear that the keeper dies."

The child laughed. "Well, duh! I'm not stupid."

"I'm in," said the cop. Then it exploded.

The child sat there, laughing, wiping blood and guts off its face. "Hah. Paint the town red." He shook his head and grinned. "Well, fuck me."

There was a knock at the door and a scuffle of voices from outside.

"Come back tomorrow!" yelled the child in between giggles.

Then he exploded too.

"The sun is setting."

I'm throwing my body down tight streets as fast as I can. The alleys spin behind me, a dizzying maze. It's okay. I'm not navigating by anything other than instinct, the desperate need to get away. I can hear it overhead, the beating of its wings. It howls because it wants to kill me. But I'm fast, too fast, my legs carrying my lithe body rapidly.

"My name is Violet."

The words come like a mantra. It's a totem or a ward. They keep me safe. They show me the way.

"I was real."

I sense the shadow above me and begin counting down my remaining moments. Maybe one of the others made it. The message must be heard.

"There were flowers."

The beast lands on me and everything goes black.