Hunger

Golden sunlight bled through the gap in the curtains, and with it, there was a harsh knock at my bedroom door.

“Thanks, Morpheus, I’m up,” I muttered, voice gruff with the remnants of sleep. Five minutes later, I was dragging myself out into the cold, stale air. Wearing slippers softened the sound of my feet padding against the wooden floor with every step I took towards the living room. Cereal? Outside the window, a performance of delicate birdsong was ongoing. Early, early enough to make french toast, perhaps some eggs…

A corpse lay in the centre of the living room.

Even face down, I could still catch a glimpse of sickly pallid skin. Skin that was shrivelled and loose against bone. And patchy. You could see his azure veins throughout the whole body. There was dried blood under it's nails, in matted blond hair.

I gagged. The smell, oh lord, the smell. Pungent. Putrid. Wedging my forearm under my nose, I held my breath.

I’d never get used to it. I shouldn’t have to.

Bang! I slammed my palm against the bedroom door opposite to mine.

“Morpheus, you freak! What did we say about bodies inside the house?” A weak groan came from the other side of the door. “Come get it! I’ll break down your door, watch me!” I threatened. The sound of shuffling came from the other side of the door, and before long, it opened with a wheezing groan. His head was hung low, my eyes not able to catch anything other than a head of damp, messy hair. You’d never think he just dumped a body on our white rug - his hair was still dripping water onto the floor in his room and he was in baby blue pyjamas with thin stripes.

“You don’t usually bother me in the morning.” Annoyance bled into his voice with a tired rasp. I huffed indignantly.

“Aren’t I the one with the right to be annoyed? I’m the one who cooks, you’re the one who cleans - that includes all the nasty corpses you add to your body count at night!” He merely grunted in response.

“Go deal with it!”

“Can’t.”

Seething, I ran back into the living room, pulling our blackout curtains to block out the outside. There, problem solved! However, Morpheus wasn’t exactly pleased when I told him as such. He gave me a look that would kill if it could.

Sliding past me, he disappeared into the kitchen, muttering something in his native language - probably cursing me to die a horrid death. Out of the cupboard came a plastic bin bag. As he turned to clear up his mess, he paused, turning to me and holding up three fingers.

“Pancakes.” he said, putting one finger down.

“Pasta.” Another finger went down. I rose a brow.

“And the last request, your highness?” I snarled, already pulling together the ingredients for pancakes. I had time, I told myself.

“Cookies,” he finally said. Rolling my eyes, I bit my tongue before I said something stupid to antagonize him. Coffee. I needed coffee before I did something I’d regret.

Even just the smell made me feel better. Fragrant and earthy, filling the kitchen with the scent of roasted chestnuts. By the time I had emptied my first cup, the body was in a bag and Morpheus had washed his hands in the kitchen sink. My improved mood fuelled my speed when throwing together the batter for chocolate chip pancakes. Thankfully, I never had to make much of anything - excluding meat - as Morpheus had a small appetite for home cooked food.

About to ask him for a small pan, I was stunned to see him swaying, dead on his feet. I sighed, putting aside the batter. Honestly, who knew what he’d have done without me? He stumbled as I threw an arm around him, dragging him back into his room. I lowered him down slowly, watching him curl up under the duvet. Honestly it was his fault. Taking advantage of the shorter days in winter, Morpheus had been sleeping less and less. It was only a matter of time before it caught up to him. Running a hand over my temple, I contemplated his demands. Pancakes was easy enough, and I had enough time to make and pack them away before leaving the house. If I worked efficiently, I could prepare the cookie dough too and just leave it in the fridge. Tick tock. The clock in the corner of the room was challenging me.

Time waits for nobody. Why is it that I constantly forgot that?

Thirty minutes late to my lecture. Like I needed a reason for my professor to hate me more. In a way that was so very cliché, I spilled coffee on the both of us. As to whose fault it was, I’d like to add it to the record that it was my hungover friend that very irritably pushed me without any regard for my clothes, or anyone else around us.

Now that same friend was the one giving me notes for the first quarter I missed.

“I’m always hung over, but at least I’m always on time. What happened with you? You’re not usually more than ten minutes late,” my friend - Heather - said with a hint of concern in her eyes.

“Rough morning, you know how it goes.” I leaned back in my seat, trying my hardest to keep up with the words coming out of my professor’s mouth. It wasn’t working.

“Whatever. Did you bring your paper?”

“My…paper?” My palms grew clammy, my chest constricting. The paper wasn’t due today, I told myself, desperately trying to prevent panic from swamping my mind. It was due Friday. Yes! The paper is due on Friday!

It was…Friday.

You know, because my luck is great.

So my morning wasn’t great. But you know how my afternoon was?

So much worse.

It was just one thing after another.

After being scolded by my professor, and having to beg for an extension, I was given a single day to hand my paper in. It wasn’t exactly bad - considering the paper was finished and I had just left it at home - but her being so rude about it wasn’t something I needed. Though, technically, I was the one in the wrong - that sucked even more, I couldn’t even blame her.

Then, the rain was heavy as it fell, inconveniently, it rained the heaviest just as I was leaving the building. I ran through the cold and the rain to my car and was still soaked from head to toe by the time I sat down.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, when I parked the car, I realised that I didn’t have everything I needed to cook before my bartender shift. And because I’m stubborn, I chose to walk the ten minutes instead of drive. By the time I got home, I was absolutely miserable. However, I had no time to complain and nobody to complain to, even if I had the time. Sometimes Morpheus would be kind enough to listen to me through the wall, but I didn’t want to disturb him with how little sleep he was getting nowadays.

In a plastic container went a rare steak with a small side of creamy, mushroom pasta. It went onto the bottom shelf, next to the bowl of cookie dough. Since he fed well the previous night, Morpheus would likely stay home when night fell, at least long enough to make fresh cookies. He liked to eat them straight out of the oven anyway.

For once, I had an okay shift. The bar was usually crowded on Fridays, but Elise came by early, so I left early. Golden light shone over the edge of tall buildings. Like it always did in winter, the sun began going down early. For a moment, I thought the day would end like that: the stillness after the end of a storm.

But it was the calm before the storm.

“Hey, sweetheart!” I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate-“Hey, don’t walk away!”

“No, thanks. I was just leaving,” I hissed through gritted teeth. In my head, I begged the man to be someone who took ‘no’ for an answer. Wishful thinking.

“Come on, I’ll walk you home. As payment,” he began, rushing to walk alongside me. Slowing down, I attempted to move away when he sidestepped to stand in front of me. Sweaty fingers clasped around my wrist, holding on tight. I glanced around. The streets were relatively empty and the only person I made eye contact with turned away. The man leaned in, I leaned back, disgusted by the smell of his breath. “You can always invite me in.”

One second. That’s all it took.

“Rewards come after one’s service. If I get home safely, we’ll see about what comes next,” I said, looking up at him through batted lashes.

One second. And it cost him his entire life.

On the walk home, I confirmed three things:

One, that his name was Richard.

Two, that he was drinking alone waiting for his friends when he saw me.

Three, building on the last fact, that he texted his friends saying he was going back to his house before approaching me.

Which meant nobody knew where he was.

When he crossed the threshold, I immediately moved into the living room to ensure the curtains were shut. I offered the man a drink, listening carefully. Not to him, but to the rustling of bed sheets that started up from the darker areas of the apartment. I left Richard in the kitchen, sipping on cheap scotch, with the excuse of freshening up. Once, twice, three times; my knuckles rapped lightly against the bedroom door. I leaned next to the door.

“I brought you breakfast, Morpheus. He’s in the kitchen.”