Seeds of Consumption

The air in the cabin was thick, not just with the lingering scent of pine and woodsmoke, but with something else. Something metallic and cloying that clung to the back of my throat. It was the taste of memory, I realized, or perhaps the precursor to something yet to come. The primal act of chapter seven, the raw, jagged edges of it, had scoured something clean within me, but it had also left a void, a hollow space that now pulsed with a strange, insistent awareness. It wasn’t just the memory of Liann’s flesh, or the coppery tang of blood on my tongue, that haunted me. It was the *understanding*. The terrifying, undeniable understanding that a part of me had not only survived that horror, but had… welcomed it.

I found myself staring at the dried strips of jerky Taji had left on the table, my gaze lingering on their leathery texture, their faint reddish hue. A tremor ran through my hand as I reached for one, not out of hunger for sustenance, but a different kind of hunger, one that coiled low in my belly and tightened my chest. It was a craving, not for dried meat, but for the raw, vibrant pulse of life itself. I pulled my hand back, disgusted and yet, a low thrum of fascination persisted. The revulsion warred with a nascent curiosity, a morbid interest that felt both alien and disturbingly familiar. It was like looking into a dark mirror, and seeing not just my own reflection, but the ghostly outline of Taji superimposed over it.

Taji was out, gone into the woods. I didn’t know why, or for how long. He’d been restless for days, his eyes darting, his movements jerky, the meth a constant hum beneath his skin. He’d talk in fragments, his voice a raspy whisper, about ‘the old ways,’ about ‘the balance,’ and about Liann, always Liann, her name spat out like a curse. I’d learned to keep my head down, to nod and pretend to understand, while inside, a different kind of processing was happening. The journals. I’d found them tucked away in a loose floorboard, their pages brittle and stained. Not just Taji’s fevered ramblings about demons and sacrifices, but something else. Lists. Dates. Names. And drawings. Crude, unsettling sketches that hinted at more than just delusion. They hinted at a method. A pattern. And a deep, gnawing hunger that went beyond anything I could have imagined.