by Dakota Lewis
I can’t move my legs, or my hands, or my lips. I feel lighter, which should be a good thing, a first for me in quite some time. But it’s as if I’m hollowed out, like I’m nothing inside but sawdust.
And I don’t like all the people walking by and looking down at me, talking about me like I’m not even here. I can’t open my eyes, but I can see them somehow, dressed in their fanciest black. And their voices, so solemn and pathetic. I want to hurt them all. I want to make them feel like me.
I’m hungry. Really hungry. Holy fuck I’m hungry. Right now, I could sink my teeth into all the beef in the world. Or ham. A goddamn cat. Anything bloody and pink.
Now I have to lie here and listen to some priest go on and on about God, and about me. I’m in a better place? The fuck I am. I’m right here, feeling stiff and strange, and so hungry. I wish I could bash his head on that podium, split him open right there on the pulpit and chew up what’s inside. He’s so pink, so warm.
It hurts. I’m gray and I’m cold and it hurts. I can’t hear the voices anymore, only the thumping of their hearts, the veins pulsing, and I can smell the headcheese in each of them. So hungry. I want it. I need it. The need moves me. I can wiggle a finger, I can shake out a leg. I hear screams but I’m rising up and I’m hungry. I can stagger, I can lope. I can sense them warm and fresh and full of blood-smell in front of me. I can feel their pink meat peel apart in my cold, gray hands.
I can speak only one word.