𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐘 (+𝟏𝟖)

CH. 17: CRAVINGS

H U N T E R

Ennui.

Noun. A feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction caused by a lack of excitement or purpose. That was  pretty much the baseline of my entire existence.

I was diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder when I was thirty, not that it was surprising. People hear that and assume I dislike being around others, confusing “antisocial” with “asocial.” I can be around people just fine— they're just irrelevant to me, extras in a play with a very small cast I actually care for.

My lack of empathy means I'm untouched by useless emotions like guilt, anxiety, or embarrassment. While those may seem like perks, there's downsides: like the occasional surge of rage I work hard to keep in check. But nothing is worse than the fathomless boredom.

Boredom for the average person is transient, comes and goes, easily pacified by trivial indulgences—drinking, scrolling through their phones, mindlessly watching television like cattle. But for someone like me, it’s a relentless void, gnawing at you, devouring everything in its path. It’s suffocating, ever-present.

That's why I kill. It’s not just about revenge; it’s the desperate need to feel anything, to cut the throat of monotony just to feel alive, even if it’s fleeting.

That's why I killed that stupid boy for touching what's mine. He had no idea how close he came to surviving as an amputee when I saw his hands all over Mallory at the party. I was only going to cut off his hands, but he fucked up— made it personal when he called her out of her name. So, I made sure to cut out the tongue he used to call her a slut before slitting his throat.

But the real high came after, when I chased my little bambi down in that corn maze, each turn bringing us closer together until we collided.

And when I finally kissed her, when she kissed me back—Fuck, it was a high like no other. The tangy taste of her fear mingled with the sweetness of cherry lip gloss on her lips, igniting a primal urge to mark her, to claim her, to show her exactly who she belongs to. The feel of her petite body beneath mine was pure euphoria, unlike anything I’d ever felt.

If gifted her blessings, without the cops intervening, I would've fucked her right there, marring her flawless skin with my bites, reshaping her in my image.

All I feel now is fury; it writhes beneath my skin like live wire. Alcohol scorches down my throat and does jackshit to settle me as I sit in front of my computer, its faint glow casting shadows that seem to shrink back, as if they're afraid to touch me in this state.

The damages to my car are etched into my memory, a near-crash that never should've taken place. The memory of Mallory's terrified eyes flashes. Her fear, that usually arouses me, now enrages me—knowing someone else caused it after putting her in danger.

She hasn’t left the estate since that night and made excuses to her friend about being tied up with Luca or buried in schoolwork. Not that I mind more of her.

My phone vibrates on the desk, pulling me out of my thoughts. I don’t need to look to know it's Anthony.

I swipe it to answer without a greeting. “Speak.”

Anthony’s voice is clipped, tense, as if he can feel the blazing inferno stoking within me through his cell.

“I’ve got something, but it’s not much. The car’s a 2017 black Chevy Suburban. I tracked it through street cams, starting with the footage from the Wendy’s lot, following it along the route you took before the attack. But it veered into a wooded area near Shinnecock Park—no cameras there—then I lost it.”