The next morning, I woke with my throat raw, like I'd been screaming all night. My tongue was thick, my mouth dry. No matter how much water I drank, the thirst didn't leave.
Not thirst. Hunger.
I tried to ignore it.
Breakfast was toast and eggs, but when I took a bite, the bread crumbled like ash in my mouth. The eggs were worse—rubbery, tasteless, as if they weren't food at all.
"You're not eating," my mother observed from across the table.
Her spoon tapped against her bowl, slow, deliberate. She was eating that same red stew again. The scent hit me sharp, and my stomach twisted—not in disgust, but in longing.
"I'm not hungry," I lied.
She lifted her eyes, dark and unreadable. For a moment, I swore she almost smiled. "It's only natural," she murmured, almost to herself.
"Natural?" I asked.
Her spoon paused midair. Then, as if realizing she'd said too much, she forced a laugh. "I mean for teenagers. Appetite comes and goes. Hormones."
But her voice was too smooth. Practiced.
I excused myself quickly, leaving the untouched food on the table.
---
At school, things unraveled faster.
In the hallway, a boy brushed past me too close. His wrist grazed my arm—and in that split second, I smelled it. Blood. Fresh under his skin.
My throat clenched, my jaw tightened. I could almost hear his pulse, rapid and steady, beating just for me.
I stumbled back into the lockers, gripping the metal so hard it dented. The boy didn't even notice, but Aisha did.
"You're really pale," she said again, brows pinching. "Seriously, you should go to the nurse."
"I'm fine," I snapped too quickly, too sharp. My voice cracked like glass.
Her eyes widened. She didn't press further, but she didn't stop looking at me either.
---
That night, the whispers returned.
Not faint this time. Clear. Too clear.
They slithered through the house like smoke, curling around my bed, wrapping around my ears.
"Hunger."
"Drink."
"Become."
I pressed my hands against my head, shaking. "Stop," I whispered, rocking forward. But the voices only laughed, a sound like broken glass scattering across stone.
The air grew heavy. The walls seemed closer, tighter, pressing me down into the mattress.
And then—I heard footsteps. Slow, steady, approaching my door.
I froze, breath caught in my throat.
The door creaked open an inch. My mother's silhouette stood there, motionless.
"Are you awake?" she asked softly.
I stayed silent, too afraid of what might slip out if I spoke.
She lingered a moment, her hand resting on the doorframe, before she closed it again. The footsteps retreated.
But the whispers remained.
---
I woke in the middle of the night with my nails digging into my arms. The skin was broken in lines, faint scratches. But instead of red, watery streaks like before, this time… the blood was darker. Richer. Almost black in the dim light.
I stared at it, entranced, until my tongue brushed against my lip and a single thought cut through everything else.
It smells sweet.
The hunger sharpened so violently I doubled over, clutching my stomach.
My reflection in the darkened window stared back at me—eyes glowing faintly red, lips parted, teeth gleaming sharper.
I wasn't sure if I was me anymore.