Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

Did you hear that?

Just a rustle of leaves, just a stronger gust of wind. Tell yourself not to worry about it, chide yourself for being silly. Keep walking, you’re almost home. Don’t look back, don’t slow down.

Pay no mind to the fact that the streetlights haven’t come on. Maybe the timer’s faulty on this street. Pay no mind to the missing moon, you can tell yourself it’s that time of month, you can tell yourself it’s hidden behind that hawthorn tree. Tell yourself that the intersection isn’t far, even as the block seems to stretch longer. You could use your phone’s flashlight, but your battery’s low and you may need it later. Save its power, just in case. Tell yourself that the lights on that distant road are enough to guide you. 

There it goes again. Only it’s not just a rustle this time, is it?

What’s that undertone? That baseline? Sounds like more than wind and leaves. Sounds like a groan. Tell yourself it’s the creak of a tree, it’s the call of a cat, it’s the grumble of your stomach. You bring a hand to your stomach, reflexive, protective. Held at this angle, your grocery bag collides into your legs with each step. Your eggs are going to break. Still, you keep your hand in position. Do you think you can protect your daughter with a hand?

Your groceries are slowing you down. But the juice was on sale, the big jug, and that little being growing with you yearns for sugar constantly. She’s reduced you into a receptacle for fruits and juice and candies. All of your thoughts now drown in sugar. So you bought the juice, though you really don’t have the room, with everything else you had to buy. And you really do not have the strength. 

Your daughter presses a foot into your hand. You press back, try to calm her through your jacket and your skin. She can feel your heart, it tells her everything she needs to know, everything you’re trying to ignore. You are not safe. 

Austin did offer to give you a ride. “It’s getting dark,” he had said, as you pulled on your coat. What he’d wanted to say was, “You’re pregnant.” As if you didn’t know. As if he has a better sense of your body than you. So you said no. It’s too early for you to rely on someone’s help. That time will come too soon without you rushing it along.

The sound again. Is it following you, or have you not moved? The intersection seems no closer than it was five minutes ago. A car whizzes through it. You wish it would slow down, not to pick you up but just to keep you company. It’s a sign of normalcy in the face of this eerie street. It’s a hope that the things that go bump in the night are not as scary as they seem. But the car does not slow, and you’re alone in the dark once again. 

You took a different route tonight, a shortcut, but now you remember why you don’t walk this way. All of the houses on this street look a little haunted. Bigger than they have any right to be on this side of town, they’re set back so far from the road you have to squint just to see their silhouettes. Still, their presence is looming. You feel them watching you from the dark. As hard as you look, you can’t see any sign of life. No lights in the windows, no television chatter. It’s almost like no one lives here. 

Was that a growl?

I know you’re tired. I know your bags are heavy. I know you're growing a whole other human within you. But you really should walk faster. You really should run. Actually, you should probably call Austin and ask him to come get you. Right now, you’ve got seconds left for it to make a difference. Make the call now and he’ll find you in time. 

And…time’s up. 

Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance. Don’t say the rustle was not enough warning, I saw the changes it made in your body. Your back stiffened, your heart quickened. You were the one who chose to ignore warning signs. I groaned and I growled, I reached out to poke your intuition. Even your daughter has tried to warn you, with her shifting and kicking. 

I don’t want to do this, truly I don’t. But here you are. And I am what I am. Don’t say I didn’t try, I tried as hard as I could. 

Eggs crack across the pavement as you drop your groceries and start to run. Too late. You should have started running from the beginning. You cannot outrun me. I try to slow myself down, I promise, I try. This body can do anything for Hunger, it can tear limbs like twigs, it can outrun a gazelle.

I can see the moment you realize I’m not what you expected. There’s a flash of relief when you recognize I am female. I see the false security begin to settle over you, the hope that perhaps I need help or directions. Then I see the moment you realize I am a monster. Vampire may be the closest approximation, but neither of us have time to reflect on monster taxonomy now. 

My fangs pierce flesh and when that first taste of you hits, I am only Hunger. Life drains from one body into the next, I feel its power course through me. You think of apple pie and how you should have eaten more of it. You think of Austin, how he’ll never know what happened to you. He’ll be left to wonder. And your daughter, still fighting and kicking even as your strength gives out, you wonder if she’ll survive. 

I was a mother once. I learned the hard way that Hunger is stronger than motherhood. Hunger is stronger than everything. I could give it to you, if you’d like. It would mean you get to live, though it’s a miserable existence, I won’t lie. 

I’ve never heard of a woman changing while pregnant, I can’t promise your daughter’s safety. But it’s a choice between her definitely dying and only possibly dying. 

 I didn’t have a choice, I would not have chosen this. But I offer the choice to you. It does not matter if it is unfair. This is as fair as I can be. I will drain you either way, I will serve the Hunger. You decide what happens after. That is the only mercy I can give. Choose quickly, while you can.

Alright then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.