The dawn of hunger, a rising sun of pain and despair—I watch as it crests the horizon. It lazily casts its light upon the morning sky, and those still living beneath it. It is a reminder. That we’re still alive, still at war with the ravenous pains in our bellies. It is also a reminder that we are not dead, equally dire in its effect on the heart, mind, and soul.
We crave the reaper, plead that we may be taken, but instinct forces us to go on. To try. To feed on rot and share it with the flies and their tiny white young. They dance the ballad of birth, death, and the in between all at once. I envy their candor.
They don’t mind being served. If they do, we wouldn’t care enough to disallow them from tickling our throats on the way down. And I suppose you could say we don’t mind being served in the same sense. Our gluttonous predators certainly have no concern. And if they do, just like the maggots, we will never know.
Clever they are, these beasts who climbed the chain all the way to the top. They maintain our numbers. They know not to exhaust their source. Sometimes they let one or two out of a group live. But it doesn’t matter. They’re sure to be consumed. It’s nothing but inevitable.
They prowl the remnants of this once-great city, mostly beneath the light of the moon. We hide in ruined buildings, under crumbling brick and mortar. Like rats. And like rats we’ve become.
That’s why I help people.
I invite them in. Offer whatever food I can spare. Give them a place to rest their head for a night. It’s always been my way, even before the world crumbled into an endless cycle of torment. I may not be a hero, but I ease the suffering of those who cross my threshold. I enjoy watching the slight decrease of tension in their face. They don’t quite smile, but there’s a hint of relief behind their lips. Even their eyes change. The hard, blank stare dulls, their eyelids relax, pupils expand. That’s my favorite moment. Each and every time, I get the same thrill, knowing I’ve eased the pain of a fellow human being.
Once they lay their head to rest, I watch as their chest rises with each breath. I watch. And I wait. I know their agony is over; they feel no more pain, no famine, no fear. They’ve gone to sleep, as peaceful as one can be in a world where all but one thing is on the bottom of the feeding pool. Where hope is a dying star, dimming in a bleak and empty universe. Where survival is a near-futile effort.
That’s why I help people. Not only is it in my nature, but it is also in itself, a strategy. A way to prolong the poor excuse for an existence any of us might have. To watch one more sunrise, to reveal yet another day upon this Earth, and whatever scraps it might bring. Those horrid things may be clever, but so am I.
There used to be a saying about safety in numbers. But I don’t get by on luck. I play with hidden cards. There’s no shame in cheating anymore. And there’s no one to slap my wrist if I get caught. So I do what that which needs to be done.
Once my guest is in a deep sleep, trapped in whatever paradisical dream or dread nightmare they may be having, I go to work. My blade is sharpened, ready and waiting. It serves well, this tool of compassion. It cuts deep, smooth, with ease. There’s no struggle. No screams. The throat is always best. Just a gurgle of blood entering the lungs as their breaths shallow with each inhale. The sedatives in the food they accepted keep them nice and unaware. This kindness must be performed in the utmost humane manner. Anything else would be cruel.
I only want to help my fellow brothers and sisters meet the ghost they so wish would take them with his scythe. Death is not unkind, it is only neutral in its final nature. As am I, his merchant among the people. I do this with no malice or joy. I only desire to eat something fresh from time to time…
Lee Andrew Forman is a publisher and author from the Hudson Valley region in New York. His fascination with the macabre began in childhood, watching old movies and reading everything he could get his hands on. His love of horror spans three generations, starting with his grandfather who was a fan of the classic Hollywood Monsters.
Lee has published three books to date, The Bury Box, Zero Perspective, and Fragments of a Damned Mind, along with numerous short stories in multiple anthologies. He is a co-owner of Sirens Call Publications, a regular contributor to The Lift, and writes non-fiction pieces for various periodicals. Lee is also an administrator and member of the horror writer’s group Pen of the Damned, where you can find a new piece of fiction each week.
Website: Lee Andrew Forman
Blog: Pen of the Damned
Facebook: Lee A. Forman
Instagram: @leeandrewforman
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