Hunger

They told me not to come here.

Not in words, not directly. People like me don’t get warnings—we get looks. Tight smiles. Doors that close a second too fast. But the closer I got to the red-lit street, the quieter those looks became, like even judgment knew when to step aside.

The sign above the shop flickered like it was struggling to remember its own name.

WAFFLE

Just that. No slogan. No menu. No hours. Inside smelled like sugar burned just past forgiveness. And something else. Something… older. I almost turned around. I should’ve. My hands were shaking, not from the cold but from the hunger that had been gnawing at me for weeks now—something deeper than empty stomachs and missed meals. The kind of hunger that makes you feel like your bones are echoing.

But the door opened before I could decide. A bell rang. Soft. Polite. Wrong.

The woman behind the counter didn’t look up right away. She stood over an iron press, steam curling upwards like incense. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, like each motion mattered to something unseen. When she finally lifted her head, I forgot why I’d come. She looked… clean. Not clean like rich people. Not polished. Not artificial. Clean like something had been scrubbed raw. Her eyes landed on me, and I felt it—like standing in front of a church altar after doing something unforgivable. “First time?” she had asked. Her voice was quiet, but it didn’t need to be loud. It settled in the room like it belonged there. I nodded. “Sit,” she said, already turning back to the iron. No menu. No questions about money. I sat. The place was nearly empty. A man in the corner stared at nothing, fingers twitching like he was counting ghosts.

I turn back to look at her, only to find her sharp gaze already fixed on me, zipping up and down, looking as if she was flipping through the pages of my life with a mere glance. Her features remain expressionless, but a light flickers in the depths of her eyes.

Sharp and slight, like the gutting knife tucked away in her embroidered, flower-patterned apron.

She turns back to her kitchen. I dare another quick look around, the stone in my stomach plummeting infinitesimally deeper. My heart starts racing despite the lack of physical exertion, and my mouth feels dry. Just as the feeling registers, SHE whirls back to me with a cup of water, filled to the brim.

I hesitate.

Her features finally move as she grins, and again the word “unnatural” flashes before my eyes.

“Drink,” she coos, “it’s not poisoned.” And she turns back to her culinary activity with a giggle.

And although I know her word is probably not worth much, I reach out and take a sip.

She giggles again, then says softly, “I know just the meal for you!”

I swallow as her voice rings out again.

“You’ll be having waffles!”

I hadn’t told her what I saw.

I hadn’t needed to. The plate sat in front of me again. The waffle looked the same—golden, untouched, innocent in a way that felt like a lie. My fingers hovered over it. “You’re shaking,” she said softly, not looking at me. I pulled my hand back. “What was that?” She tilted her head, as if the question bored her. “You came hungry,” she said. “Did you expect nothing to answer?” My throat tightened. I looked down at the waffle again. The square I’d bitten from seemed… deeper now. Too deep. Like it hadn’t just been eaten—it had been taken. “Eat,” she said again. This time, it wasn’t a suggestion. The room felt thinner. Like it might tear if I moved too fast. I picked it up. My hand didn’t feel like mine. The second bite was colder. Everything went quiet. Not silent—absent. I was kneeling again. But closer now. She stood in front of me, no longer distant. The shifting veil around her slowed, settling like something deciding to stay.

Her eyes found mine immediately.

Recognition.

Something in my chest folded in on itself.

“You remember,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

I tried to speak, but something thick and heavy filled my mouth. Not words.

Regret.

Her hand lifted, and this time, it touched my face.

Cold.

Gentle.

“You’ve been starving a long time,” she whispered.

Images cracked open behind my eyes—things I’d buried, things I’d refused to name.

I gasped.

And the world snapped back.

I was choking.

Crumbs stuck in my throat, my chest heaving as I dragged in air that didn’t feel real.

Across the counter, she watched me.

Smiling now.

“You taste it, don’t you?” she said.

I couldn’t answer. Because I did.

I instinctively push myself from the counter, and the chair gives out under me, taking me down with it. I try to pull myself back up, but my vision’s going… green?

I try to call out to the other man. The only sound that escapes is a rattling hiss, more animal than human. Even if I weren’t suffocating, I doubt he would help. He is further gone than I.

I try to crawl to the door, but the faster I move, the further the exit seems. My arms ache as they try to pull my whole limp body, and the world seems to go out of proportion, dimensions clashing where they hadn’t before.

And the exit seems to glow. A truly divine glow, beckoning me closer as it leers at me. Taunts me because my fate’s been sealed long before I read that cursed sign. Ever since I’d made the choice.

My vision doubles, and my body gives out. I hear her draw nearer, but I have no strength to back away.

Memories plague my vision, memories I’d shoved so far down I’d forgotten about them.

She crouches next to me, making sure she’s in my line of sight, and incredibly, in this moment of desperation, I feel a pang of guilt.

Like a hound sensing fear, she senses this guilt, and smiles her unnatural smile again.

“Fitting, don’t you think?” she asks, cocking her head at me.

“An eye for an eye.”

She giggles again, the sound settling, and I’m lost to the world.