Hunger. Flash Fiction.

Hunger.

Deep, clawing, needful hunger.

It had been like this for days. Ever since the accident. Nothing would get rid of the empty hole in his stomach. The fridge and freezer had been emptied of food in the first day, the food was supposed to last for two weeks, but the hunger just kept growing and growing. He was tired, sluggish despite the constant need. His body felt sore and achey, almost like coming down with the flu. It seemed that if he wasn’t eating he was drinking, the thirst was there and it was terrible, but the hunger overrode it all. He had tried to buy more food and when he ran out of money he broke into a small grocery store, eating as much as he could. That was two days ago and he hadn’t eaten since. His body was emaciated now. He had been fat before, probably bordering on obese, if not well into that category already. He knew he was big, he didn’t need a scale to tell him that, but he was busy and there were so many other things to worry about. Now his skin hung from his body and the hunger was still there. He was weak, so very weak. It hurt to move. Unless someone found him soon he knew he’d be dead. He hoped Bruno was safe, the dog had slipped through the door and ran away days ago, he wasn’t sure exactly when. He hoped someone would find Bruno, take him in. There was no one else for him, he had no family, no real friends. He had been a loner by choice and while he was content before, now it troubled him. He didn’t want to die here, lying on the floor too weak to get up, just waiting for it to happen.

Pain.

Sudden, sharp. Curving through his stomach, down through his guts, he tried to breathe through it, it seemed never ending then, it stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. Somehow his body still managed to cover itself in a thin sheen of sweat. He panted heavily, glad it was over. He knew now that he was definitely dying, there would be no coming back from this.

Pain. His insides clenching, churning. Oh god, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t. Darkness tinged his vision, his entire world became that pain, sharp and burning.
He spasmed, legs and arms flailing. He couldn’t control it, or himself. The pain changed, became hot, wet, dimly he thought he soiled himself. The warmth spread slowly around him as his body jerked, he could see it now, a dark red puddle, smeared by his face and limbs. A faint moan escaped his lips, the last sound he would make. There was a final, mercifully brief, flare of white hot pain, then it ended and he knew nothing.
The creature writhed in the blood, it’s too white body turning crimson. It let out a shriek, the hunger, it was intense, it needed to eat, it needed food. It slid through the puddle, towards the door, towards food.

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About Alan James Keogh

I am a 24 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
This entry was posted in Horror and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Hunger. Flash Fiction.

  1. Blimey! A brilliant piece! Had me shuddering 😀

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