Feast or Famine

Bob Sykes begged his wife to accompany him on a much needed vacation.  His bout with writer's block approached its third month with no apparent relief in sight.  His wife, Linda, agreed to join him, but he knew that she despised the country.  The never ending croaking competition at the pond rattled her nerves.  He watched as she blocked out nature's disturbing calls with a valium and a shot of brandy before going to bed. 

As they slept in their modest but comfortable queen-sized bed, Bob tossed about when a recurring dream invaded his quest for rest.  He grunted, shaking his head, knowing that when entering the realm of darkness he'd be lost to a world where primal instincts ruled over civility. 

Bob pushed his way through the bushes, ignoring the sharp scrapes against his arms and legs.  He gagged when the stench of rotted meat permeated the humid air.  His soft brown hair impeded his vision while the mangled mane pasted on his shoulders. 

The fight to press forward and reach the cabin gnawed at his conscience.  He struggled to recall what led him to stray away from the safe confines of his summer retreat.  Bob squinted and smiled when he spotted smoke rising from the chimney.  Its steady gray spirals signaled impending relief much like the comforting neon lights of a hotel alerting a weary salesman after a long tiresome journey. 

About fifty yards away from his cabin, he cringed when crossing through an icy stream.  His bare feet stung as if dancing on hot coals.  The intense pain sent ripples of a pin-pricking sensation up his ankles, through his thighs, and on to the back of his knees.  He stopped and this time the foul odor of rotted meat assaulted him until his body writhed.  Something traveled up his stomach and ejected out of his mouth.  Blood.

Bob moaned upon examining the new crimson splatter at his feet.  The blood itself seemed foreign.  In fact, it reminded him of a thick, sinister stew.  Maneuvering upright again, he renewed his effort to return to safety. 

Bob continued to rock side to side in his bed.  His uneasiness at watching the strange event filled him with dread.  No matter how much he moved, Linda remained in her drug induced coma, oblivious to her husband's plight.

As Bob sprinted through a maze of pines, two things nagged at him.  First, an overwhelming feeling of someone or something watching his every move heightened his senses.  Second, he spotted movement up in the trees.  In spite of the surrounding darkness and dwindling full moon, vultures observed with keen interest. 

Then, without knowing why, Bob stopped and got on all fours.  His smell of fear gave way to an erection.  His ears pricked at attention.  The sound of a rapid heartbeat drew his interest to a small brown creature.  A furry rabbit, frozen; its eyes wide open, broke the primitive connection and hopped away with amazing quickness.  Somehow, within seconds, Bob pounced on the animal.  His fingers, no longer human digits but long claws, entrapped the frightened creature.  The bunny's heart about to explode like a grenade, pounded against Bob's filthy flesh.  Just as he opened his mouth, revealing two sharp incisors ready to chomp at the rabbit, he awoke safe in his cabin.

"Oh, thank God.  It was just a dream."

Bob glanced at his wife Linda, her back towards him.  Her dark frizzy hair spread out over the plush white blanket.  She remained still.

Bob rose from the bed, stretched, and stepped on the cold, wooden floor.  His pupils adjusted to the darkness.  He hobbled over to the window on his side of the bed and witnessed how a new day attempted to break through, but clouds hid any evidence of something sinister lurking in the sky. 

He whispered, "I can't believe how real it felt."

With his adrenaline normalizing and his skin stinging, he guided his fingers over his arms and discovered fresh scratches.  Much larger, deeper marks extended from his ribs to his solid abs. 

He contemplated going back to sleep, when he spotted the window on Linda's side of the bed shattered.  He limped to examine the window pane.  A trail of dried blood sprinkled from the floor on to the wooden-based frame.  He lifted his foot and traced his finger along a visible, yet almost healed scar.

"I don't remember climbing out this window."

Bob turned to speak to Linda, hoping she could shed some light on what happened.  He flicked the lamp on and wailed.  A disturbing coat of red soaked her white blanket.

"Linda?"

Shaking, he pulled the covers away and keeled over, spewing the remainder of his previous meal.  He noticed how Linda's eyebrows arched in a permanent scowl.  Her head dangled separate from her body, and her chest cavity revealed missing organs. 

A sharp stinging pain ripped through him, followed by a horrible howling.  His loss echoed throughout the woods, alerting the night creatures of impending retaliation. 

Bob lifted his head and the view confirmed that the clouds no longer impeded the moon's full majestic glow.  Still hungry, he turned to feast on what little meat Linda had left.  With her arm in his mouth as if gorging on a turkey leg, he faced the mirrored headboard, blinking at the unrecognizable beast before him.

For only when the moon disappeared, did he know his true nature.  Like the vultures, he lived by the law of survival.  Presented with a choice of feast or famine, the hunger always won.  He knew that monsters like him preferred to feast.