A Strange Kind of Hunger | FIRST DRAFT

The Mouth of the Storm

For a moment Jonathan is frozen, fixated on the ghastly, distorted faces of the Goodwin brothers. All thoughts of Jesse, all thoughts of what he came to the house to do are forgotten, replaced by a horror so deep it seems almost instinctual. Even the creature, presence tucked as always under his breastbone, seems to shrivel with disgust.

What is that? Jonathan asks, hardly expecting a reply. His lips make no sound, but all the same the thought seems to echo around his cavernous mind.

A perversion, comes the creature's eventual, muttered answer. An affront against nature, if you believe such a thing is possible.

Despite the revulsion, Jonathan can't tear himself away from the brothers and their twisted features. Their roving eyes, fluttering beneath skin that seems to writhe with the movement. Facing each other down, they look hardly human: there is something of a wolf in each of them. Something of a vulture, a bear, a creature familiar to Jonathan and yet totally foreign.

Courage, little one, says the creature. They cannot hurt us.

Jonathan half-suspects the reassurance isn't meant for him; he can feel the creature begin to toss and writhe between his lungs, sending little bolts of pain scampering through his chest.

Ow, he thinks, trying calm the creature's restless movements. I should think you need me alive.

It seems to listen, and the writhing stops, replaced with a dead stillness. Somehow, that's worse; in the moment of tranquility Jonathan remembers everything. His reason for being there; his desperate need to get in; his certain, unshakable conviction that Jesse is dead. Guilt hits him once more, but this time it's a cold, clinical guilt. The knowledge that time and time again he has allowed himself to get distracted. He has failed Jesse, in the worst way. He has forsworn the oath of a doctor: to do no harm; he has allowed his need for answers to overtake his duty to his patient. The shame of that, he knows, won't leave, even after the guilt passes. It will remain like a brand, etched into his mind.

Do not be so harsh on yourself. The creatures words seem less reassuring and more mocking, reminding Jonathan of every time he failed in his duty. Not just to Jesse but to the nameless old woman, whose grave lies bereft and bare. Not just to the old woman but to the dead girl, and to Kiah. To Robert, in that kiss. The kiss that he allowed to die, when it was on the cusp of birthing something new. To everyone, it seems; even to himself.

He tries to stand, tries to reach the next unoccupied window, that he knows will lead to Jesse's room — but the nausea reaches him first. A tidal wave that rocks his body to the bones, forcing a gasp through clamped-shut lips. The woods, the house: all of it spins, swimming in and out of view as his stomach clenches into agonising knots. Panting, shaking, he fights for any semblance of control as he feels his limbs begin to crumple. Help me, he thinks, screaming the words in his head. Feeling the wall he was crouched against begin to give way, thick bile beginning to rise in his throat. Help me help me help me help—

It's over. Jonathan feels like crying as he collapses back against the planks, finding them to be solid and steady. If he believed in a god, he might've thanked it that he's still hidden, that Gabriel and Zachariah's footsteps are receding from the window. He still has a chance, in some small way: if he can just get to Jesse, then Robert's house is the other side of the forest path. If he can just prove that Jesse's not dead.

Well done, whispers the creature, voice ever-present in the back of Jonathan's mind. You have ridden out the worst of it. Tell me, do you feel different?

I— Pausing, Jonathan takes stock of his body. The feeling of tiredness, exhaustion that ran spine-deep, is gone. Disappeared like breath on a mirror. So too is the fever, the tremors that tore him apart. The pinched, pressure headache. If anything he feels slightly stronger, slightly more alert: every blade of grass seems etched out with laser precision, glaring in high-definition. When the first fat, storm-drunk raindrops begin to fall, they land like miniature detonations on his skin; when he flexes his hand, he feels an unknown strength in the tendons and joints. I'm stronger.