Lunch
A year before…
Munching. Scratching. Smacking lips in delight. I pressed my ear tighter against the wall. The noises on the other side, it sounded as if someone or something was feasting on an object.
Pulling away gently, I watched my knuckles intently as I eased myself from the cracked wall. Last thing I need is to accidentally rap them, and signal to who or whatever is on the other side - they are not alone.
I wrap my arms around my waist in an effort to shield myself from the draft in this lousy refuge. Still, even though there wasn’t a soul living in this apartment, it served as a welcoming shelter. I just wish it were June, and not early February. The nip in the air and trekking through knee-high snow isn’t exactly my goal in life. If I had it my way, I’d choose a house any day, complete with a bed and its warm covers, a pillow but not rolled up newspaper or scraps of cloth to anchor my neck. Food, oh, I crave a delicious meal! Pork, cooked eggs, a stuffed turkey like I’ve seen on TV when staring through Kohl’s window, fresh water, or maybe I might be lucky enough to sample milk. I sighed after the thought of drinking milk. I haven’t eaten a decent meal in two days.
I slipped down to my knees, and peeked under the door. It was dark. No trace of light. I sniffed, wondering if I could smell food. That might explain the weird noises I’m hearing. I sucked in a larger amount of air, than grumbled, “Darn it.”
A low growl, followed by claws scraping – against wood? I froze. My breath caught in my throat, heart quickened its pace, and oddly, the hairs on my arms and neck prickled.
“Who. Is. There?” asked a dramatic but a very irritated voice.
I didn’t answer. What fool would? I’ve lived on the streets long enough to know this: If someone is bigger, stronger, and all around nastier, keep your trap shut or… run for the nearest police station. Homeless folk generally steer clear of the Cops. Most in my area are under the influence of drugs, hooked to alcohol or both. Any person with half a brain on their shoulders can see the telltale signs of a druggy. Their eyes are usually bloodshot. Some I’ve noticed get the shakes too, like an earthquake swallowed them up whole. The druggies, I try and avoid them. Best not get on their turf, and anger them. One might pull a knife or worse… a semi-automatic.
Remaining in the same hunched position; I just kept the one eye fixed in the darkness under the closed door. No way in hell was I going to answer a cannibal!
More munching. Panting? I slid a little closer. It can’t be. The lack of food has to be playing its cruel tricks on my mind. Dogs pant, but they sure do not talk! I inhaled a gulp of air and listened as quietly as I was able. Several seconds passed, and I had no choice but to exhale. I heard a whish, as the air came pouring out. Tensing. Maybe too much noise?
Pounding. Fists punched the door, creating an echo throughout the hall.
I yelped, and backed away by using my hands to push my butt backwards. I did not stand, and run off though. I only slid back a couple feet, thoroughly curious about the entire situation. I’m homeless. All I have left is the tattered clothing on my back, and of course, my life. Not really much I have to lose if things turn for the worse, except dieing a grisly death.
“I hear you… human. I have not partaken in my meal yet. Chewing on bones grows incredibly distasteful after a day.”
I pause, trying desperately to breath in a relaxed and calm manner but the pumping of my heart and the sweat developing on the top of my forehead and under my nose were all constant reminders of fear growing steadily worse every waking minute I stay. Locked. Locked in morbid fascination.
“No?” asked the voice. It was low but it sounded strange. Surely not like any person I’ve ever heard. Scratchy and horse, it reminded me of someone with a sore throat but whoever this was, they spoke flawlessly. Not a hint of restraint either.
“Uh… I don’t have any food, sir,” I squeak so soft, even I barely heard myself ask the question.
“Ah… But you are food dear boy.” Lips smacking against each other again. “Shall I nibble on your calf first, or would you prefer a quick death?”
I wipe away sweat around my eyelids. I’ll need my full eyesight if I’m going to survive this nutcase! I still don’t run. Past experiences have taught me, if you flee from an armed druggy, you’re good as maggot chow. It hasn’t been the first time I’ve watched someone shot, and it will probably not be the last I’m forced to witness death from a distance, in fear of falling to the same fate as the victim if I too run.
“Who… Who are… ya… ya… you?”
“That would be telling,” the voice snickers cruelly.
“Are, are ya… you human?”
A thunderous crack against the frame of the door. Without a second thought I jump to my feet, and race far, far away!
