The night wasn't quiet as usual — the rowdiness made it feel like day.
Cries echoed from the hill down to the city below.
"Judgement," the people called it. The end, nigh.
The chill of death was oddly refreshing.
No blood had been spilled, but its scent choked the air.
What haunted the moment were the screams of children — left crippled, abandoned, and alone.
At the hill's peak, their parents waited for so-called judgement.
Their wailing crescendo-ed into a beautiful, twisted song as the last parent crossed into the cursed landscape.
An unholy mist crept in from the hill's base, sealing them off from the world. No one could enter now.
The children, left behind, cried for their parents to return.
Hunger gnawed at them. They searched for food, weak and disoriented.
Exhausted, they began to hallucinate.
They didn't feel the pain — only joy.
In their minds, they were feasting on the finest delicacies from all across the world.
Their happiness soared as they bit deeper — tearing through their own flesh, bone, and breath.
Around a fire, they danced.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Enjoying the taste of themselves
until death did them part.
"A feast without a table. A death without a scream."