Despair (Finny x Reader)

Untitled Part 1

Locked alone in a cold dark room with nothing but the taste of dry blood caked on my lips, I stared at the emptiness before me and let my mind wander. It wandered around the room, leaving my body lying helplessly on the floor in the pool of dark liquid that seeped out of the hole pierced in my chest. It didn't matter though, that I was there, dying. My mind was more interested in what was happening in the next room over.

That room was mostly white, with a few people busily running around. One of them was being scowled at, another one was laughing hard, but the one that struck the most was the one safely sealing a big chunk of fleshy material in a sterilized plastic bag. He reminded of pain, of loss, of anger, of betrayal. Those feeling welled up inside, having nowhere else to run off to. My tired mind finally retired to the room where my body was lying and watched the life leak out. When it was gone, I took possession of my body once again and ran out in the dark streets of London, vowing to take back what they took from me, vowing to take back my heart.

I wandered about for a few days, hoping my body wouldn't deteriorate from the constant exercise it was subjected to. I didn't feel hunger, so I didn't eat, but I had a constant urge to bite down in the soft and tender flesh of the pedestrians around me. I resisted the urge for days, hoping I could one day get rid of it, but it just became stronger, taking over my mind. I couldn't ignore it, it was a part of me, so I accepted it. I needed flesh.

I set off in a dark street, hoping to find someone alone. I didn't care who, I needed to quench my terrible hunger, my terrible lust. It built up, threatening to burst out, and a thousand different delicious scents filled every inch of my lungs. Only then I realized that I didn't breathe once since then. Only then I knew that I was dead. I hated the living, so happy, so carefree. I hated the man standing alone cloaked in the stench of alcohol. Life wasn't fair, so I lunged, plunged my teeth in his exposed neck and let the metallic yet enhancing taste curl around my tongue, taking no notice of the bloodcurdling screech and the violent squirms. I ate him, inside and out.

The weeks that came after were quite satisfying. I chose my prey with care, choosing the ones that would taste the best. Little did I know that I was known as Namira, and that one of England's cutest detectives was following my trace.