A Hunger

A Demon for Aurelian Ashmore

There was a name for me once. They made me forget.

I am not known by moniker. I am felt through deed.

I am the rumble in your belly. The rattle in your bones. The scorching of your throat. That white-hot inside when you lie beached on desperate shores.

I am the one above the ladder, hoisting it from beneath your feet. The eyes gnashing away at your yummy body in the dark. The voice in your chest, reminding you of days of light. That frees you to cheat love. Rend hearts. Take from the child. From the low. The down. The trodden.

I lie inside men with their hands around the world. Inside knights who serve and protect. Inside eager alleyways, lovers’ promises, carnal favours, slung epithets, filial pieties, babied mumbles, biding tides.

Ma-ma. Ma-ma.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about you. How empty you must feel. How full of rage. Stewing. Bubbling. Boiling. Stuck by samsara. Destroyed by dukkha.

What’s that? Oh, you poor thing.

This place hasn’t been very kind to you, has it?

What if I told you a secret? Would you promise to keep it?

I know a way out. I have seen Xanadu. Nirvana.

To reach it, there remains few things you must do for me. Is that okay?

Good boy.

See your room? Your devices, your edifices, your dedications to this life you have made? Take a glance. It will be the only time.

Step outside now. See that container? Spread your tarry happiness along the walls, the carpeted floors, the rasping steps, the portraits of your universe.

Now find their room, with the life of the night leaking through. Stand over their bedside. Utter orisons over them, mutter benediction, thank them for all they have done. They raised you, after all. Close your eyes. Open them.

Now, show them the light we see. In slow gorges, if you can. The slower, the better. It’s more tender that way.

Slower. Slower.

There.

They would have woken up the others. Make haste—Heaven does not welcome sloth. Move fast. Run until your blood beats molten. Until your lungs fill with iron.

There’s one. She’s taken after her mother, it seems—running, running, running away from you.

Show her what you would’ve done to her mother.

Okay. That’s enough. The walls are already painted. Her self already spills its secrets. You’re doing very, very good.

Don’t forget the other one. Yes, the one with a spangled cover. The one with your eyes. Nubby feet. No teeth.

There you go. That’s it. That’s better. How does the tot roil against the tongue? So smooth? So finite?

Oh, to reach enlightenment so young.

One last thing, then we’re done, I promise.

Remember the tarry goodness? Take yourself there. Sit at its centre. Take your lighter, flick the flame, grant leave for it to rapture you. See the indescribable inside. See how your ordinariness compares. See the light, for it will be yours.

Let it fall, now. Now let it rise. Let it come for you. The black film stemming on the leaves. On the wood. The orange. The reds. The flickering. The licking. The heat. Just like that.

No, no, no. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. You’re all so much better now, aren’t you? Isn’t this what you wanted? What you asked for? Aren’t you full? Content?

Don’t you see?

Don’t you see?

Don’t you see?

Don’t you s—

---

Submission for

Aurelian Ashmore

’s “Submit your demon” competition. My first real stab at horror, playing around with ideas relating to my forthcoming book. Enjoy!