The Devourers

by Indra Das

He talked a lot. I can’t even remember most of the many things he said to me as he fucked me, but they were the ramblings of a madman. Or so I thought at the time. Brevity and clarity weren’t his best talents. Though considering the circumstances, he could have been the best storyteller in the world and I’d still have hated every word. He told me about a Grecian king who was turned into a wolf a long time ago by some god or the other, and he told me about his tribe and how they don’t think of themselves as humans, and how they have two selves and kidnap babies and are forbidden to bear children, and he even cried a bit. He did catch my attention when he said there were others like him who called themselves djinns, a word I grew up with, listening to folktales told to me by my mother. It felt awful to hear that familiar word, which reminded me so of happier times, in that situation, coming from the mouth of a man about to violate me. Mostly, he made a big show of wanting to conceive a child, because his people couldn’t create. I thought he was a broken man, but I felt no pity whatsoever.