Hunger. Even laying down was straining, his throat was swollen as though tied into a knot in on itself. How long has it been? No answer came. But even when there is no wind there are waves, thoughts came and went, hunger stayed. From the corner of his eye he saw the cursed light of day fall in through rotted window sill, then leave, then come back again. If it could take that pain with it and not bother him again. He opened his eyes. The curtain was which used to cover his window was now curled into a twisted rose. There was no weight that he had to pull from his bed. He stumbled towards the window hugging the wall. Darkness, dead leaves sung in the cold midnight breeze. What was so different tonight, of all times why now could he not resist this urge. Who was it last time? Not even her face came back to him, only the shriveled memory of her presence now lacking.
He was the one to move his body, but it was the hunger that controlled him. Lantern lights, people walking past. The smell of piss, horses and tobacco smoke made his head spin. He was peering from behind a corner now. Too loud, too light, too many people. With time even the alleys cleared. He could still head back, lay down again, wait. A shadow danced on the walls, moving forward and then back again as the figure passed each lantern. Long steps, he instinctively matched his steps with the figures. Long messy dark hair curled from under the hat held barely together by a white hair pin, bouncing up and down with each step. They both stopped. The sound of heavy breathing was the only thing he sense that broke through the smell of that perfume. Maybe that, and warmth. He did not remember the moment he bit into the back of it’s neck, but when he woke up again she was lying curled on the sidewalk, again. He stared at her for a moment longer in horror of what he did and left. “One day, I’ll get used to it” - a naive memory rung in his mind on the way back.
The courtyard used to never be empty, cocktail parties, picnics, and fox hunts used to happen all year round. But those were never enough. It was just that the hunger took a different form back then, but all the same it was it that drove him to this point. One touch on the doors as enough to rip it out of it’s hinges and have it come crashing down to the floor, like feather the chipped paint filled the room. He stepped upstairs one foot at a time, and threw himself on his favorite armchair, waiting for something. It came back to him, a different feeling, that of someone waiting for him to come back. He expected a familiar voice to greet him. But the room was quiet.