Desperate Is

With the coming of her first bleeding she began to crave. At first she was unaware entirely of her subconscious beckoning. It started as a mere inclination, a ghost of a desire; crimson running fluidly through her dreams. As her body changed, her appetite began to form. The hunger in the pit of her budded and swelled in time to her blossoming body.

In the beginning she could ignore it.

She would eat, desperately attempting to stave herself, not allowing thought of what could really fill her to contentment.

Her mother would laugh. 'My what an appetite you've developed, Shiori.'

Then she could hide it.

'What an appetite indeed.' She would think callously to herself.

These cold words would often erupt inside of her unwillingly. She took shameful pleasure in indulging in them; letting herself sink into dark, nasty thoughts. These new tendencies frightened her, but they were too dominating to override. She began to bite the insides of her lip when strangers past her by. She imagined the tang that swam against her taste buds as theirs; she imagined the breaking flesh to belong to another.

She grew into a woman, and she could no longer restrain what was in her being; what she had no discipline and no explanation to hold back. Bite marks sprung out among her body, and her excuses for their presence grew old to her mother. She knew, but like her, she could not bring herself to voice what was happening. She could not face the horror that the ones she had hated most were deep inside her daughter's character.

Soon her own taste became dull, and she thirstily stared at the villagers. She had always been wide-eyed and quiet, and they had grown accustomed to her demon heritage. They naively no longer feared her presence. It was not long before the first man went missing. No one knew; no one guessed that the quiet, submissive girl was responsible. Only her mother pieced together the truth. She turned her back, unwilling to except what her girl had become. One man went missing, followed by another, and another. The town grew uneasy. Paranoia, lynching, riots with torches, and religious zeal broke out, but still no one guessed.

And then, it stopped.

The men did not return, yet none disappeared. The white-haired woman still came home with the glow of health that she lacked when the cravings started. Desperately wanting to rationalize, her mother attempted to click together some explanation. She was better; her starvation could be cured with rice gruel. Even as she brought these thoughts with her to sleep, she knew they were lies.

And then she knew.

Picking and marketing off the wild, edible plants were their only source of income. She carried barrels back to the village daily, always following the same path. Some core function in her forgot this path on a day that was not particular. It seemed the moment she stepped off her usual way she was assaulted with sounds nearby. They were so strange and foreign she could not form a picture in her mind of what it could be, and decided to gain one. It did not take long to find.

Beneath a tree that was supporting his back; a white-kimono clad woman straddled her knees on either side of his leg, her hands desperately gripping his spiked armor plate. Her body shook and her eyes squeezed shut in fervor as her teeth sank into his neck, the sound of whimpering and lapping erupting from her like tiny spasms as she angled her head back and forth. His clawed hands were closed dangerously around her arms, wringing them, it seemed, as she drank.

Although her time with her lover had been short, the mother knew enough to see that this man was clearly a full demon. He showed no sign of pain or pleasure. He showed no expression at all. He merely stared down at the female eagerly battering his flesh between her lips. When it appeared she had her fill, she fell away from him, and her eyes opened; a strange glaze coming over them. She merely laid there upon the ground at his feet, curled up, her hands folded in prayer beneath her head, staring off somewhere that was not seen to anyone else.

He watched for a moment, and then stood, his movements graceful; almost uncatchable. He made no effort to look back to the girl he had allowed to assault him. His actions made no promise he would return.