Hunger

Hunger. His stomach ached with pure hunger. His lips bled. His hands were nearly frozen shut by the freezing air around him. He couldn't move them if he tried.

He could smell blood. Fresh circulating blood.

The booze that had stained his breath had done little to numb the agony that tore at his lungs. The snow around him had reached his knees and its soaking-wet weight clung to his trousers like chains. His mind felt dreary, filled with a dull roar as he trenched closer and closer to the raw scent, closer to the pinprick of light that shone against the thick forest trees. It swam a little in front of him through tear-soaked eyes and he fought the urge to cough from his cotton-dry mouth. He licked at his cracked lips and continued to stumble through the snow.
He couldn't feast, not tonight. But he could possibly find a distraction or two.
A very delicious distraction.