What Hunger

by Catherine Dang

Blood looked different when it wasn’t ours. It was thicker, more alien. More alive.

“You ever think that heaven sounds awful?” he’d once asked. “It’s the biggest destination for all these people who think they’re good. You’ve got the people who pray and do jack-shit for the world. You’ve got the people who yell at others who don’t believe in the same shit. The people who shove money up their ass, pretending that no one else deserves any. Now we’ve got people who blow themselves up because they think they’re being holy. All these people think they’re going to the same special place. They all think they’re right. An eternity with all of them in the same room? It sounds like ass.

My brother would walk first; I would run later. Without him, I stumbled alone.

The filet mignon fit inside my palm perfectly, like a rare ruby. It was bright red, a healthy red. And it seemed to glisten even in the faintest of light. The blood dripped from the meat. It slipped through my fingers like raindrops. I couldn’t hold back. I took a large, desperate bite. My teeth sank through it as though it was butter, scraping against my palm. There was a spurt of liquid in my mouth—and the blood leaked past my lips. The taste was so sharp, I thought it would dry out my tongue. But the meat dissolved like cotton candy. Salty and delicate.

Imagine getting slapped and you feel like part of it was your fault. That’s not normal.”