(in)human form
I gaze at the wooden box, runes glinting in the moonlight beside his bed, waiting until I am sure he sleeps. I feel his breathing rise and then gently hitch, this is how I know that it is time.
I let each of my limbs stretch for the first time in hours. The joints creak and protest as the skin tears, pulls apart, unfurls. I leave my papery disguise behind, a bloodless human husk atop the sheets.He has nearly been rendered useless, there is very little left of him to sustain me. Besides the thoughts and memories I grant him during his waking moments, there is virtually nothing that truly makes "him" up anymore. We are nearly one being, though to accept the last remnants of my host would be to accept his identity, to assume his role… To assume his mortality.
For this reason I have been forced to search for new sources of sustenance.
Out in to the night air, slithering over the damp grass, the sharp rocks, the dark pavement. My senses have been dulled by my hunger, they do not serve me the way they once did. Weary, weakening with every moment that passes, becoming more fragile, more… human.
No
I will not let myself fade. I will not give in to the fleeting promises of fulfillment these vessels cling to. Momentary pleasures, temporary ignorance to the inevitability of death they will one day face. They will perish. But no, not I.I will feast. I will scavenge. I will live on.
Another unsuspecting victim. A window left ajar for the cool night air, just enough to fit through. Their sleeping figure stirs for a moment, their breathing changes. I remain still, hidden in shadow, until their breath falls back to a hypnotic, oblivious pace.
Across the ceiling. Only a small space between us now. Patiently, carefully.
Down the wall. Over the headboard. Until we make contact. I latch to the skull, gradually tightening my grip.
feed
What do I seek? What piece of them will they never notice is missing? Something imperceptible, something, anything, to make it through until the next feast.
Siphoning memories, thoughts, emotions. Enough to live on and enough left to return for another meal. They are injured, certainly, but I haven't bled them dry. Yet…
The act of regurgitating pieces of someone is unpleasant, but necessary. The wooden box beside the husk must be filled- this is what I agreed to when I chose the path to immortality. I honor my agreement only out of necessity, it is a truly vile ritual.
Only then am I able to settle back into my shell. I wrap the skin around myself, pulling it tightly. My task complete, I must now sleep. And soon he will wake…
Never to know that nearly every piece of his being has been scavenged from others
Never to know that there is no he
There is no we
There is only I