Cravings — Alayna Maryrose
short story ☆
short story ☆
"Please don't leave! Mauve! Please. I'm so hungry, and I'm sweating so much, and God, I just want to eat. I don't know what's wrong with me. Please, please don't leave. Or, wait, will you bring me something to eat? Anything. Get me anything."
"I-I'll get you help! I'll be back!"
—
It took me so long to reach the curtains. I'm glad I'd opted for the blackout kind.
I run my tongue over the depressions in my gums. Dull pain pulses where the teeth used to be. Exposed, now dead roots are quickly covered by intricate tendrils that weave across the wet gaps. The pain subsides. Those teeth were the last bits of strength I'd needed to cross the living room and close those fucking curtains. I'm so tired, but I need to find more food. I wish Mauve hadn't opened the curtains before she'd left. Where is she, anyway?
I part my lips. Inhale. Soft, thick air flows into my throat. The webbing of veins covering my lips flutters as my breath rushes in. A part of it tears and tickles my damp skin as I exhale. A cloud of delicate, shimmering spores swirls in front of me in the dim, orange glow of the lamp light. Each time I release a breath, I'm captivated. I created that, and they'll create life themselves, soon enough. I allow myself to sink a little farther into my couch, close my eyes. I give a final push outward before allowing my tendrils to rest on whatever surface they've landed on. Even when I don't move, I can feel every little pulse and undulation of my new limbs, the soft fibers of the carpet, the intricate textures and divots of the rug, the smooth, cool surface of the coffee table, the computer, the TV.
I frown.
I've barely spread across the living room. The damp, dim room is comforting, but I need to stretch farther. It's not enough. I need to seep into every nook and cranny of this apartment building. I need to coat the walls with every vein and fiber of my new self. I need to—
My stomach growls, the vibrations rattling their way through the networks of my new arms and legs. It's not a feeling I liked before I started to change, but feeling my whole body vibrate with hunger makes it much worse. I'll need all the food I can get if I'm going to make this entire complex my home. Make it into someplace that people will never dream of leaving. Somewhere we can grow and be and exist and eat and expand and spread and gorge and live.
I force myself to take a deep breath. Got a little too excited there. Wasn't Mauve bringing me food? How long ago was that? And where is she?
Mauve?
Flashes of a woman with long dark hair and kind brown eyes. My arms and legs pulse with the memories of her kisses: soft, sweet, dry. I see her touch my cheek with her hand. I frown as I remember the sensation of her touch, the way I'd yearned to touch her too, to feel her the way I can feel my own skin. I cross my arms against my chest, dragging pieces of damp, delicate webbing with them. I reach up and rest my palms against my cheeks the way I used to soothe myself when I was lonely, to pretend someone was holding me close. When I needed more than what I was given. I shudder at the thought of how unhappy I used to be. My palms feel warm against my cheeks. The feeling is nothing like the memory of that woman's hand. It's bumpy, slippery, alive. A thousand little fingers reaching into my porous skin, connecting, wrapping around the tiny, ballooning stalks that have taken root within. I feel some fingers sprout forth to embrace them back. I part my lips and sigh, opening my eyes to see more; multicolored spores swirl in the light.
I stare at them in awe. I've never seen anything so beautiful.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
Who?
Another vibration wracks through me. I groan. The hunger is more pronounced now, and I feel one of my fingers slowly coming away from my hand. I pull my hands away from my face to watch as it's pulled into the slimy, bulbous mass that's accumulated around my waist.
The hunger subsides, but only a little. I run my tongue over my lips, a metallic taste on my tongue.
I need more.
I push my network of arms and legs into the kitchen. I don't have much, haven't been grocery shopping in weeks, but I know I have food in the pantry and some pizza in the fridge, at least. I gaze at my tendrils as glistening rivers of blues, oranges, reds, and yellows make their way into my narrow kitchen, absorbing every crumb that's been forgotten on the floor. I listen to the sound of cardboard boxes tumbling to the ground, cereals spilling on the tile, onto me. I hum at the sweet taste of sugar, the satisfying fluff of carbs. Of dried fruit and oats and oh, it's so good it's delicious I want more there's gotta be more.
Glass shatters, a soda explodes, fizzy and sticky and carbonated and delicious. More. A moldy yogurt in the back of the fridge. Avoid. Bread and butter pickles in a loosened jar, yes please. Ice cream-a bit cold, but so satisfying. Are those real bits of strawberries in there? A stray granola bar, a can of tuna shoved in the back of the top shelf. My mouth begins to salivate. It's so easy to absorb, to consume, to pull everything into me so I can feed. But I want to taste, to use my taste buds once more.
"What kind of pizza do you wanna order?"
A voice that isn't mine asks as I bring a slice of day-old pepperoni pizza to my lips. In the back of my mind I remember this kind of pizza being one of my favorites. Why was that? The pepperoni is cold, and the cheese lacks flavor, having solidified over into a cold, plastic sheet. I spit out the half-chewed bite and allow my vein-like arms to absorb it instead. Instantly, I feel satisfied, the savory flavors of meat, cheese, and-is that garlic?- causing fireworks to appear behind my eyes.
Finally, the hunger in my gut subsides.
After I finish absorbing what I can find from the kitchen, I rest my arms and legs. Pulsing, undulating idly. I roll my head around on my neck and marvel at the state of my home. Comfortable, damp, safe, filled with my colorful veins and spores, hanging dreamily in the air.
I scratch at a patch of skin that hasn't quite webbed over yet, raised and itchy.
"I-I'll get you help! I'll be back!"
That strange voice again.
Help? For what?
I stretch, enjoying the feeling of being so deliciously full. Every tendril is throbbing with joy, pulsing and squirming as I rub the masses on my belly. For a few moments, I enjoy the quiet feeling of needing nothing.
Then hunger wracks my body again, stronger this time. I wrap my arms around my waist and groan. I stretch my arms and legs back inside the fridge, search the pantry again. The food I'd absorbed was all I'd had. Fuck.
I push, squeeze myself into the cracks of the walls, down into the kitchen of the neighbor directly below me. I feel a nail come loose from the bed of my thumb. Below me, I hear my neighbor scream, high and shrill, at the sight of me rapidly spreading over the spaghetti-stained walls of their kitchen. I feel a finger, small and plump. It tastes like raspberries, red colors, and candied pecans.
I absorb it. A cry cuts through the thick air of my apartment. I squeeze my eyebrows together at the piercing noise. The hunger pain grows. I travel farther up the unseen limb, sharp nails grasping at me in an attempt to remove me. I burrow deeper, nestle into the soft skin and take root there, absorbing and exploring the sensations and flavors; raw, savory, somewhat salty, the delicious taste of pork and ugh, chemical cleaners. Bitter lemon and the faint taste of diluted bleach. Yuck.
I glance to my right and notice the ballooning sphere on my shoulder, swollen and golden. Downstairs, I drive myself into the flesh of whoever is attempting to rip me away from my meal, releasing clouds of spores into the muscle beneath.
"I-I'll get you help! I'll be back!"
Was someone here with me?
I look around my living room. Below me, the yelling is dying down. Or maybe I'm just tuning it out. I reach a hand up to my right ear and realize it's no longer there. Beneath my hand is a bumpy, bald patch of skin, spores pouring forth from where my ear canal used to be, tickling my fingers. Pictures of two pretty women decorate one of my living room walls, things like "You and Me 4Ever" and hearts decorating the frames. I don't recognize either of them, but they look happy. I try to grasp why I'd have pictures of two women I don't know in my apartment, but I fail.
Finally, the screaming stops. Hunger still gnaws at my stomach. I finish my meal downstairs and reach for the budding tendrils that have begun to sprout from my neighbor, intertwining mine with theirs, and stretch towards the refrigerator.
I feel lighter, despite all the food I've consumed. I look down; my legs, my original ones, are gone, absorbed into my new form.
A flash of light catches my eye. I turn, tilting my head at the sight of the stranger who's standing in my doorway. Long, dark hair, impossibly wide eyes. Her mouth moves, her lips pull downward to reveal her crooked teeth. She continues moving her lips, and the bag she's carrying drops to the floor with a thud that gently ripples through me. Is there food in there?
A memory of a voice lurks somewhere in my mind, trying to surface. What did the voice even sound like? I shake my head and crawl over the wrinkly plastic of the bag, the taste of pennies no longer coating my tongue. The only thing I can taste now is the rich flavors of hundreds of foods at once: salty, nutty, smoky, raw, coppery, sweet, and pleasant as they rush past each other one after the other. The strange woman in front of me has taken a step back. I reach a hand up to wave, as if to say "Look, I'm perfectly fine. Do you want to come in?" but all that comes up is a blossoming swell of wet spheres and colorful, slimy threads. This woman looks like the one in the photo. How did I get into her home?
The woman holds her hands against her chest, shrinking back into the open door frame. Why does she look so distraught? Does she think I'm in pain? The only pain I feel is from hunger, but nothing else. Not for long anyway. Her eyes dart over my tendrils, her chest erratically rising and falling as I inch closer. She turns on her heels and dashes out the door before I can touch her.
"I-I'— g— yo- -el-! I'—be —ck!"
I close my eyes and lean back, tendrils weaving in and out of my exposed ribs, heart, lungs. It tickles. I no longer feel that awful hunger, thank God. Just the sweet, delicious flavors of everything. Three flights below, someone has made a cheesecake, thick blobs of raspberry filling swirled into it. Two doors down the hall, someone has gotten a new tattoo, the taste of ink and plasma sharp and strangely sweet. Someone in the apartment above me has spilled a glass of wine, the flavors of tannins mixing with the dull taste of dust on the wooden floor.
Everything tastes so, so delicious.
Inside the plastic bag the woman left behind are plastic bottles, pills, and the stale taste of air. I leave them be.
Mauve.
I don't even like that color. I try to knit my eyebrows together. Upstairs, downstairs, in every room and crack and crevice, I swell and expand, inching and eating and savoring. This room is so warm, damp, and cozy. I hum, and a weak vibration passes through me as I feast.
I never want to leave.
Alayna is a queer horror writer and artist residing in the Pacific Northwest. When they aren't sketching or thinking of ways to make their characters' lives more complicated, they enjoy bird watching and playing board games with their partner.
