Hunger

It would have been an ordinary Saturday, had it not been for the glandular fever that was effortlessly ripping through his system, turning listlessness into depression and robbing him of oxygen and ‘give-a-shitness’. The supermarket offered him the same, dull selection of canned botulism and pock marked fruits and vegetables and he swore to himself (at himself) – as he had for the past 3 years, 22 weeks and 4 days, that he would soon move to a ‘nicer’ neighborhood.

The glandular fever had left him without an appetite – in the sense of basic human drives, but with a desperate hunger for surrender. He mulled over the freezers laden with bags of tasteless ‘springtime mixes’ and gnarled chicken feet.

He emerged at till number 5 with 2 items in his shopping basket – a bottle of Baronne and a large bag of well trimmed ‘dog’s bones’. After all, he thought, Sebas, his Labrador of 6 years, didn’t have fucking glandular fever.

He trickled home…well, it felt like a trickle, it certainly wasn’t a stride, or a saunter or a charge. He stared in disgust at the grey-brown scum that frothed up from the boiling bones and uncorked his bottle of Baronne. He found the largest beer mug in his apartment and emptied the majority of the wine into it.
Taking deep, strong sips of wine, in the dim light of his modern, yet unfashionable lounge, he opened the book that had consumed him until after three that very morning. It was filled with surrender, laced with horror, spiked with cruelty, mangled by atrocity, bludgeoned with fear, splattered with hatred….

….”The camp was damper than usual. The rains had been brutal, the guards, even more so. Hella sidled up next to Tessa, her left eye now completely closed from the beating she had received only moments ago…apparently one of the guards found her lack of strength in administering a speedy and satisfactory hand job, distasteful. His hand had strength though, and speed, as it shot ‘fistfully’ towards her tear filled eye.

The rations had been handed out. Bones again, with less meat on them than before. 3 bones each, with nail sized slivers of sustenance – meat and fat, and knuckle sized hunks of gristle.

'Tessa…come on love, eat.' Hella beseeched.

Tessa curled herself up, almost fetal-like, and tried to barely breathe. Hella quickly wrapped Tessa’s bones into the lining of her skirt – she may want them later and if they were left there in the bowl, they would most surely be taken. Hella sighed and began chewing hungrily.’..........

He put the book down, feeling nauseas, weak, and slightly drunk. He slowly stood up and made his way to the kitchen. The fucking glandular fever made even a short trip…no more than 15 steps, physically exhausting and painful. He stood over the pot of bones, now cooling down in the murky, oil coated water.
‘Bones again, with less meat on them than before. 3 bones each, with nail sized slivers of sustenance – meat and fat, and knuckle sized hunks of gristle.’

He reached with his bare hand into the water and pulled out a bone. The warmth of it felt comforting. He inspected it for a while and then, raised it to his lips and began to chew on it. He imagined Hella doing the same – only Hella never made it – she never got the chance to swear to herself (at herself) that she would soon move to a ‘nicer’ neighborhood. The bone-water dribbled down his chin and neck and pooled in greasy patches on his crisp blue collar. He gnawed, and sucked at the bone until it was spent. Again, he dipped his fingers into the water and retrieved another bone. He pictured the rows of canned botulism and pock marked fruits and vegetables that the supermarket offered to a population of non-prisoners. He felt ashamed – pure, unbridled shame.

As he laid down the third spent bone, he felt HIS hunger dissipate – his hunger for surrender.