Hungerstone

by Kat Dunn

To be a woman is a horror I can little comprehend.

Bad dreams come if you sleep beneath the full moon.”

This happens to me

“Carmilla,” I say, tasting the syllables in my mouth. A little harsh, but with long, languorous vowels lingering between the lips.

I can never escape the past. Its mark on me has been made too deep.

Her voice is soft and melodious, lingering on the hissing sound that moves between her lips like a breeze.

SOMETHING IMPATIENT AND SNAPPISH has swollen inside me. I feel as though I carry some fragile, painful growth in my throat, and every small challenge or inconvenience threatens to burst open the pustule and fill my mouth with poison.

“You are very pretty when you are honest.” “Am I?” “Terribly. Will you tell me your story?”

I do not know why, but her sudden rejection feels as though a cloud has covered the sun. Something in me wants her light back.

Carmilla holds an allure, like ghosting a finger around the edge of a flame: the temptation, the beauty, and the anticipation of pain.

My existence was a burden to all involved with it, and I resolved to never make any demand if I could help it. Then, perhaps, I could be tolerated. Then, perhaps, I could be loved.

If I see Carmilla this morning, I will lose myself to the soft caress of her hand, her honeyed words and knowing gaze.

She clasps my hand and lays upon me so many pretty compliments, I cannot but be moved to think well of her. The soft heat of her skin, the wave of her bronzed hair that tickles my throat, and the languorous way she reclines against the arm of the chair, twining our fingers together to keep me pinned, like a cat with one paw on the tail of a mouse. It is intoxicating, a flame I cannot but reach out to touch.

“Disappointment tells us what we truly wanted. And to want is to be alive.”

I realized then that what I wanted was for the mother who lived now only in my memory to alight upon me in this unfamiliar place, pluck me up and cover me in kisses and tell me how much she missed me.

She places a finger inside my mouth. The rich, round sweetness floods my tongue, against the cold, clean taste of her skin.

“I am a mirror to those who need it. To those who hunger but deny themselves.”

My fingers come away red with blood. She takes them and one by one places them into her mouth and licks them clean. I do not know what stirs in me, but it is beyond words—only a feral, urgent instinct.

I pull her up by the hair and kiss her again, the contrast of soft lip and sharp teeth driving me to kiss her harder, deeper.

“Oh, little Lenore. It is terrible to be alive. But it is worse to be dead to ourselves.”

How frightening it would be to die, but how great a relief to sleep forever.

I cannot deny the pull I feel towards her, like honey and wine, sharp vinegar and the prick of rose thorns. I do not want her to leave me again.

All we can hope for in life is to know one’s own desires in order to be able to act on them. To want is to surrender to uncertainty. To step into the unknown. To expose ourselves to all possible outcomes and trust we will not be destroyed by disappointment.

The more I understand my own appetite, the more I understand how far I am from satiating it. It is as though it spills out from me in every direction. I want to be desired; I want to travel, to paint or write, to be listened to and respected, needed; I want true family—whether that be children or not—I want, I want, I want.

I will die like all mortal things. At least let me taste a little life before I go.