Hungering Teeth.

XIV.

May 21st, 1791.

A hand in the dark, so cold, so sure, outstretched with purpose. From his wrist, I drank. It flowed, beckoned, with a whisper low, drink, he murmured.

"Drink. Drink from me."

Nori's voice, a serpent's kiss, a chalice offered in cold embrace, a kiss of death.

I drank.

    The pain rippled through my bones, I hissed. My body is curdling.

    The blood of life, the blood of sin.

    I drank.

    Oh sinner, in the dead of the night. Take this blood, so sacred, so sweet.

    I could feel the blood slithering beneath my skin, like it had a life of its own, moving through my veins in unnatural ways.

     My teeth, slow and agonizingly, tore through my gums. My nails became sharp and talon-like, as they grew from within, breaking through my flesh.

     My breath hitched, coming in shallow gasps as the pain bloomed in new places. My spine arched unnaturally, bones grinding and snapping, rearranging themselves beneath my skin. Every fiber of my being felt as though it was being unwoven and stitched back together with something darker, something far more ancient than the world I had known.

    The taste of his blood still lingered on my tongue, metallic and sweet, laced with a power I couldn't fully comprehend. It wasn't just blood—it was a promise, a curse, a binding tie to something unholy. And yet, I had drunk deeply.

    "Drink, my beloved. Drink from the world, as you drank from me."

    And so, with a final, shuddering breath, I surrendered.

    I woke up with this burning pain. The world around me was a blur, my vision hazy and fragmented, but one sensation cut through the fog like a knife: hunger. It gnawed at my insides, an unrelenting ache. I had never known hunger like this—it wasn't just an emptiness in my stomach. It was deeper, sharper. It was a need that clawed at my very soul, demanding to be fed.

     The thirst clawed at me again, more vicious this time, twisting in my gut until I couldn't breathe. I stumbled out of bed, my legs shaky beneath me, but the hunger pushed me forward. Every step felt heavy, like walking through molasses, but my senses—God, my senses were alive, too alive.

I could hear the wind rattling against the windows, the distant hum of crickets, the soft creak of the house settling around me. And beneath it all, I could hear something else—a rhythmic thudding, steady and pulsing. It was...blood. Somewhere nearby, blood flowed, warm and alive.

     So close...

    "Agnus!"

    Mama's voice rang through the wall, distant yet so near, soft yet harsh in my ears.

     "What is wrong with that boy?" her voice came again, edged with worry.

    "I told you," Pops grumbled, his voice low and distrustful, "there's somethin' wrong with him."

    I try to call out. But my voice comes out in a low, guttural tone, barely recognizable to myself.

     What cursed thing am I becoming? My God, is this your will?

    I clutched at my throat, as if I could rip out the horror that had taken root there.

    The light of dawn filtered weakly through the thin curtains. The bed beneath me felt strange, like a coffin I had not yet been laid to rest in. I half-expected the walls themselves to collapse in, burying me with my sin, with this wretched body that no longer obeyed me.