It has been a long, hungry winter. But Mama has taken care of us.
We aren’t hungry anymore.
The snow has settled outside and has stopped for now. I try to keep my eyes fixed on the horizon, trying to ignore the sobbing from upstairs. It looks peaceful. The snow-capped mountain peaks stretch across my view, spines of ice and stone stabbing into the still and quiet sky. It’s beautiful, in a way.
Papa used to say the giants slept there. Hidden deep inside. Sleeping. One day, he said, they’d wake up. And they’d look at us small little things, and they’d judge us. Whether we were good, kind decent folk, or whether we were dark, twisted little things scuttling around.
I was scared of that, once. Scared that they’d know of the extra helpings I greedily devoured, scared they’d know of the times I angrily smacked my sister, scared they’d know of the lies, the sin, the evil that dwelt within me.
I’m not scared anymore.
Mama said there’s nothing sleeping in the mountains. I believe her. She doesn’t lie. She takes care of us, she always has, even when the bad times came, when the bad things came and took Papa.
I hope Mama is wrong. I hope one day, because it will be good. Because they will crush us like ants, and it will be just.
“There’s more stew, Margaret.”
A voice, timid and soft.
A haggard face peaks out from the rags and worn blankets sitting by the fire. A young face, once beautiful and kind, now weathered. Big, bright eyes sunken into a pale, skull-like face. The face of poverty, of famine, of hunger.
But we aren’t hungry anymore.
“I know. There’s lots more stew, Annabelle.”
“Would you like a second helping?”
I stare at her for a moment, before nodding slowly. Annabelle fills a wooden bowl, offering it to me. I stare down at it. It looks delicious, and it smells better, the smell of the meat-filled broth drifting up to my nostrils. As I take the bowl, somewhere deep inside, I hope the giants are watching.
Hunger drives people. It’s primal. Instinctual. Animalistic. The urges that dwell deepest in our hearts drive us to the deepest depths. Hunger. Sleep. Warmth. Lust.
Lust it what brought the men here. They were rare, at first, but more came. Every few days, a knock came at the door. That’s when I took Annabelle to play in the garden, among the flowers. If I went far enough, to where the trees became the forest, I couldn’t hear Mama anymore. The moaning. The grunting. The screaming. The fucking. Mama doesn’t know I know that word, but I do. Papa never said it. He was a good, god-fearing man.
Papa didn’t fuck. He made love. He was sweet like that.
But that isn’t what those men do. They don’t come here for love. They come here to fuck. To fulfil an urge. It’s primal. Instinctual. Animalistic.
Papa always left soft kisses on Mama’s neck when he left. The men leave money at the door, whatever meagre sum Mama is worth to them. That, and a baby. A baby, innocent and pure, that grows in Mama’s stomach, growing more and more every day.
What money Mama makes from the travellers isn’t much, but it’s enough. Enough to keep the hunger at bay, and that’s all we really need.
At least, it was. In the summers, when the road was clear, when travellers passed by the cottage. When flowers burst across the fields, flashes of colour and brightness. When times are good.
The winters offer no such respite. The harsh winds snap at you and tear at what few rags you wear. The snow smothers the fields, killing what little life manages to survive through Fall. The cold bites through your bones, bitter and unceasing.
But I don’t mind the cold. It simply numbs the senses and steals away poor souls, letting them drift off to sleep.
I don’t fear the cold. I fear the hunger. The hunger tortures, it gnaws away at you. First, it gnaws away at your flesh. It makes you thin and frail. Then, it gnaws away at your mind, making you crazed and desperate. Willing to do anything. Then, it gnaws away at your soul. At your memories, at your passions, at your morals. It gnaws away, until nothing’s left but the hunger. Until all you are, all that’s left, is that animalistic hunger.
They say it’s all that remains in the bad things. That the hunger changes you, twists you, destroys you. They say it makes you into an animal.
But I don’t believe that. Hunger doesn’t make, it doesn’t change. It’s an absence. All it can do is take. It takes away the pretty masks we wear. It takes away the lies we tell ourselves to sleep at night. The morals we so hypocritically hide behind. It takes away the facade, revealing us for the animals we are. The monsters that hide underneath the soft, delicate skin.
The beasts within are always there. I can hear mine, sometimes. If I listen very softly to my heartbeat. It whispers things to me in the faintest voice, as it waits, patient and still. Mama’s voice whispers to her as well, I can tell. I’m sure somewhere deep inside, it whispers to Mama.
But we aren’t hungry anymore.
They don’t come out until you let them. Not until hunger drives you to release them, to break that final taboo and let the animalistic urges take over. Maybe they’re trapped. Maybe they’re not ready yet. Maybe they just know that when you embrace them, when you take off your mask and show who you are underneath the facade, their moment of victory will taste all the sweeter.
It watches you struggle. It watches your desperation grow as your body begins to devour itself, desperate for nutrients. It watches you cling to the pathetic morals you swear you’ll hold true. Then, when you’re finally ready, the Wendigo comes out to play. It fills your belly, and the hunger finally stops. For the time being. But it comes back. It always does. No matter how many cold winters you survive, no matter how many times you fill your belly, the hunger always returns.
It must’ve been whispering in Mama’s ear for days. She’d done everything else to protect us. She had to. And I will be forever grateful for what she’s done for us. But even after all she’s done, it was part of her mask. And that mask is slipping.
Upstairs, the weeping has stopped. Mama is still now. The stew is warm in my stomach, and Annabelle is still next to me, fast asleep. Only the gentle sound of her breathing tells me that she’s still alive. With her pale, emaciated body, it’s hard to be sure sometimes.
The men came rarely in the winter. But they still came. A young man came by yesterday, a wanderer. He had money on him, but it was no good to Mama. Mama didn’t have the strength to walk to the village and buy food, and the stranger had little willingness to help him. He was just a man, like any other, seeking to fulfil his urges, and nothing more.
Mama needed to take of us. She threw away the final taboo, because her children, those she loved and cherished more than anything in the world, were so desperately, endlessly hungry.
But we aren’t hungry anymore.
Mama opened the door to the bad thing inside her, and now, it’s crawling out. It’s upstairs now. In the morning, while she cooked the soup, I could see it in her. In her eyes. They were dark, almost black. When she smiled at me, when she reassured me it would be alright, there was gristle in her teeth.
I can hear crying from upstairs, but not like before. It’s fresh now and high-pitched. The first cries of life, as a new life enters the world. Normally, it would fill me with joy. But Mama isn’t herself anymore. I saw her this morning. Her pretty features were gone. They’d been weathered away by time, hardship and hunger, but now, no signs of them remained. Her mask was gone, and the beast inside was taking over. She’s up above, changing still. Letting the hunger consume her.
The tears are coming faster, now. They’re pouring down my face, hot and wet. I think I’m sobbing, but only softly, so Mama doesn’t hear. I gently close my eyes, listening to the creaking of floorboards upstairs. The baby’s cries are brought to the end by the sound of a sickening crunch.
Then, silence.
There’s a moment where I still my breath, trying to stop even my heart from beating for fear of Mama hearing. Then, there’s the crunching of bones breaking, of bloody meat slithering down a throat, of a wet tongue lapping at bloody remains.
Then, silence once more.
I release my breath, listening to my heart beating fast and loud.
“Margaret?”
Looking down, I see Annabelle’s big, brown eyes staring up at me. I pray silently she didn’t hear Mama tearing off the last traces of her facade.
“It’s OK. Go to sleep. Just shut your eyes and go to sleep.”
Annabelle nods obediently, squeezing her eyes shut.
I am terrified, scared and alone, but Mama will take care of us. She has always taken care of that. Soon, she will be down to us. Or, whatever the hunger has left of her will be down to us. She’ll prowl forward, the bestial urges having taken her, the mask having slipped off forever. She’ll kill us. She’ll devour us. She’ll tear us apart, as the beast inside feeds.
Hopefully, Annabelle sleeps through it. Hopefully, she falls asleep and never wakes.
But she won’t. From the tears running down her face, and the loud crunching of the stair boards as Mama slowly lumbers down, I know she’ll be awake. I know she’ll see what’s left of Mama, as will I, and she’ll feel every bit of what’s to come.
But at least we aren’t hungry anymore.
