The Hunger Within

Something inside of me pushes from within, raging to be released. I know what it wants, and I know that if I give in, I'll never be able to stop it. It's hungry, and it makes it known.

And I know what it's hungry for. I was very poor growing up, but my parents always seemed to put a meal on the table every night, without fail. And each night, it was the same thing. I thought nothing of it; it was food, and I was hungry.

It wasn't until I was 13 that I discovered the disgusting truth. The police came to my house one day, taking my parents away and putting me into a foster home. I found out that we had been eating human flesh.

When I turned 18, I got a job and ended up with my own apartment. Now, I'm 25. I live a secluded life. Most people think my lack of social interaction is a mental issue, and it is to some degree, though not in the way they'd think.

I hunger for my former meals. It terrifies me, to know that part me of wants it. When I pass by people in the supermarket, I can't help but think for a moment what it'd be like to taste it again.

I wanted friends and a social life for so long, but I knew the risk I would be taking. After a while, I took the risk.

The monster inside me used to be controllable for the most part, but when I go to clubs or spend time with friends, it tears at me from within.

I can't help it anymore. I can't hold it back any longer, I just... can't. I've made arrangements for my next meal. At the very least, tonight...

...I'll eat well.