Consume Me Whole

Devoured by Grief

Montgomery de la Cruz sat slumped in a stiff plastic chair, the kind that made your back ache no matter how you sat, and stared at the scuffed linoleum floor. His sister, Estela, sat next to him, perfectly still, her knees pressed together, hands clenched into tiny fists on her lap. Across from them, the child services agent finished her rehearsed condolences and slid a stack of papers into a manila folder, her voice dragging like it had been used too much that day.

"Your father passed from alcohol poisoning," the woman had said minutes earlier, as if poisoning could do justice to what had really killed him. Years of drinking, anger, and disappointment had rotted him from the inside out. There was no mystery here, no shock-just a slow death finally reaching its inevitable end.

Monty should have felt something. Anything. But all he could focus on was the ticking clock in the corner of the room and the weightless feeling creeping in, like someone had opened a door inside his chest, leaving him hollow and directionless.

Estela sniffled, wiping at her nose with her sleeve. She was crying, but quietly-always so careful, even in grief. Monty knew he should reach for her hand, but he couldn't make himself move. The monster was gone, but the relief that came with it felt too jagged to hold on to.

He wasn't sure if what he felt was grief or some mutation of it. His father had spent his whole life breaking things-bottles, furniture, ribs, people. Loving him had been a slow, miserable war of attrition. There had been moments of calm, sure, but they only made the explosions that followed worse. And now he was gone. Just like that. Monty couldn't figure out what to do with the pieces left behind.

For most of his life, Monty had thought of his father as a black hole-an endless hunger that devoured everything good in reach. Rage was the only thing that ever filled him, and he'd needed it all for himself, leaving nothing for Monty or Estela.

Monty knew it was stupid to think it, but he couldn't help wondering if the rage was genetic-if it was part of his DNA. If his father had passed it on to him, too, like some cursed inheritance. His anger never came in neat doses or flashes; it burst out of him like a fist through glass, always too much, too fast.

The thought gnawed at him, hot and restless. What if I'm like him? What if it's already inside me?

He squeezed his fists tight, feeling his nails press into the skin of his palms. There was no way out of it, was there? If anger was hunger, then Monty knew exactly what he'd inherited-this ravenous, insatiable need to destroy, to bite into something soft and ruin it. He'd spent his whole life trying to stop himself, but lately it felt like it was only getting worse. He was starving for something he didn't even know how to name. Normalcy. Peace. Maybe even love.

But all that hunger ever turned into was shame.

Monty's mind drifted to a night, years ago, when his father had come home wasted, stumbling and growling like an animal. Monty had tried to get Estela to bed before their father saw her-before he could get mad about some imagined offense-but it hadn't worked. His father had cornered them both in the kitchen, reeking of whiskey, laughing that awful, hollow laugh that made Monty's skin crawl.

"You know," he'd slurred, leaning down close to Monty's face, "One day I'm gonna eat you alive. Both of you. Ain't no running from it."

It hadn't felt like a joke. His father's breath had smelled rotten, like the liquor had already started to spoil inside him. Monty had stood frozen, clutching Estela's arm tight, wondering if monsters could really do that-swallow you whole, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but bones.

He could still hear the echo of that night, even now, years later. Love and hunger had twisted together in his mind since then, tangled up in sharp edges and rotted promises. To love someone felt like letting them crawl inside you and devour whatever they wanted. To be loved back was to surrender yourself and hope there'd be something left over when they were done.

That was the part that scared him the most. The idea that, maybe, he was the one with sharp teeth now.

Estela sniffled again, pulling him out of his thoughts. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was trying not to cry, holding her breath like it might keep the sadness from spilling out. Monty hated how much she reminded him of himself-always pretending to be fine, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers clumsy and slow. There was only one person he could think to text.

Montgomery: He's dead.

The reply came almost immediately.

Winston: Where are you? Do you need to come over?

Monty stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. A part of him wanted to say yes. He wanted to be with Winston, close enough to touch, close enough to keep him grounded. But another part of him-a bigger, angrier part-wanted to be alone. The comfort Winston offered felt dangerous, like the kind of thing that could pull Monty in too deep and leave him stranded.

Montgomery: No. I just wanted to tell you.

Three dots appeared on the screen. Then they disappeared. Then they came back. Monty could practically see Winston struggling to figure out what to say.

Winston: Okay. I'm here if you change your mind.

Monty locked his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes against the dim overhead lights. Winston didn't push, not really. He was patient like that. But Monty could feel the weight of Winston's presence even through the silence, like gravity tugging at him from miles away.

He wasn't ready to let himself fall yet.

The child services agent returned, folder in hand, and smiled at them in that sympathetic, practiced way people used when they didn't really know what to say.

"Your mother is on her way to pick you up," she said. "It'll be okay."

Monty doubted that. But he nodded anyway, because that's what people wanted from him-to pretend.

He glanced over at Estela, who was still sitting stiffly, her face red and blotchy. Her whole body looked fragile, like she might shatter if someone touched her too hard. And it hit him all at once: his father was gone, but the damage was still here, sitting next to him in the form of his little sister. He'd survived, sure, but it hadn't been enough to protect her.

His stomach twisted with guilt. If you couldn't save her from him, what makes you think you can save her from yourself?

Monty clenched his fists again, nails biting deeper into his skin. The hunger gnawed at him, the need to be good, to be better-but it felt impossible. Like no matter how hard he tried, he'd always be starving for something just out of reach.

Because deep down, Monty knew: love didn't just heal. It devoured.

And there was no telling what kind of monster it might turn him into next.