The Gnawing Hunger

Truth Will Ensnare You

Hawthorne. The skinny man was consuming his every thought as he sat on the bed. More then this painful hunger was doing deep in his stomach. Or whatever he could actually consider this terrible pain inside himself. As it felt so much stronger than simple hunger. As his dinner hadn't done anything to stop it. Neither did the pretzels that he had been munching on. Which seemed to only make his mouth run dry. The taste of the savory snack was so utterly disgusting to him.

Then there was the image of him that he thought he had seen. The image of Hawthorne outside in the snow. Barefoot and wearing Arthur's clothes. Yet, he hadn't been there when he took a second look. Before all of this, Bo never hallucinated. Was this another side effect of his minor concussion? It didn't seem all that likely. Nor did the change in his tastes. He was fairly sure that this isn't what a minor concussion can cause. Wouldn't the doctor have told him if it did?

Just what had the good Doctor told him again? He wasn't all that certain at the moment. At least in that regard he wasn't entirely sure. Though he was somewhat certain this wasn't part of it. Nor were the strange dreams he had. But, that was probably from the trauma of everything that happened.

If he remembered it right, trauma did screwy things like that.

Messed up your dreams among other things. Bo wasn't totally confident that that was all it was. Then again he wasn't all that confident in much at the moment. What was real and what was not. Wait, the Hell was he thinking? This was just him being over-dramatic. Over-dramatic and stressed. Everything was fine and he was going to be fine. He was just seeing things earlier. Hawthorne wasn't outside the cabin in this weather. And he certainly wasn't wearing his deceased best friend's clothes. There just was no way that he could have been. After all, there was really no evidence that he was there. No disturbance in the snow. Like footprints or anything like that. So that would mean that Hawthorne wasn't there at all.

Yet, his mind wouldn't let this whole thing slide. Something in him believed that the shorter man was there. Really there somehow and wearing Arthur's clothes. Despite how impossible that would be for him. After all, he was at a Motel Six in town. A thirty minute travel by car and a two hour travel on foot. He probably having already called his Mom sometime. She probably already bought him a room there. Also probably wired him some more money to get some food. Was also probably finding a way to send him clothes to wear. And the man was probably finding a way to get back on his own.

Which meant that he was probably going to mail Bo his shoes. That Hawthorne would probably send him some texts soon, too. Bo hoped that he would be texting him soon. As he found himself to be really liking them. Maybe more than just liking. Way more than that. If he were being completely honest with himself.

Some part of him didn't really want to be.

As this would be admitting more about himself than he desired. Way more than he desired. And he didn't know how to handle that. In the slightest bit. Being gay wasn't really a problem for him. Or anything like that. But, he had felt that he was straight for the longest time. Since he had interest in girls before this. Went on a few dates with women. Thought he had been a lesbian before he transitioned.

Which was a confusing time within itself.

As were the crushes along with the gender dysphoria. Trying to be femme. Something that just felt utterly wrong then. Unfortunately being butch didn't do him any better. As it just made him feel like he wasn't enough. Or rather, made him feel like he wanted the look but it wasn't entirely right. That it was nearly missing the mark and why the Hell was he thinking of this? His best friend had been murdered right in front of him. He was even possibly force fed a piece of his corpse. And now there was this horribly painful hunger deep inside him.