The Call of Her Hunger

 

He never should have brought you there. Should have known better than to think that the story could end with a happily ever after. Could end with love conquering all. But he did love you, in his own way. It was his downfall. He loved you so much he brought you to the one place that would see to your inevitable doom. It would happen any moment now. You could smell it, tickling against your nose with the salt in the air.

You had been sick. So very sick. You could have died peacefully at home if your husband had let you. But he loved you. He would say it over and over, time and again, and you believed him. You still do. How could you ever doubt it, especially now?

The doctor had said that some fresh sea air would do you some good. You were not well off enough as a couple to go somewhere as grand as Italy, but the few children you had were happily married, taken care of, and your husband, who you remind yourself again, loved you, was willing to take the time away from his business affairs. So, it was soon settled. You packed up a few belongings, some restful activities to keep you content and happy, and travelled to the seaside, and settled yourselves into a small cottage.

It had been cozy enough. It was clear it had been around for some time, although not so long to put it in disrepair. You supposed it was hard to keep the paint fresh with the sea salt air stripping it so constantly. It struggled to remain white as any speck stuck out starkly, and the rust from any mental hinge tinged the paint with its sickening orange stain. Still, you appreciated the gesture, and, truth be told, you had always loved the sea. Never to swim, but merely to look. There was something powerful about it. So much that the human mind had yet to understand or conceive of it. And besides, the cottage had beautiful royal blue shutters, and felt so starkly different from the suffocating tones of brown, gold, and green that dominated your home in the city. It was natural there. Clean. Your husband knew that, knew best, that is why he had brought you there.

He had called it Conch Cottage. Just resting above the cliff, he said it was named as such for the call of the sea that could be heard just beyond the door. Claimed it was known to hypnotize better men than him with its siren song. You had no reason to be suspicious then. Many people had such thoughts about the sea. You had been told the old fairy stories since you were young. Of the hold the sea had on poor hapless men. How she was as deadly as she was beautiful. You had always thought them silly. But just as men claimed to be powerless against women, they also claimed to be powerless against nature. You supposed that was why the two were always conflated. Nothing he said should have raised any alarms, caused you any concern, and they had not.

What should have raised your concerns was how well he knew his way around the cottage. How easy it was for him to find the cups to hold your favourite tea. What little effort he had to put into fiddling with the stove to get the kettle boiling, how he knew which way to turn the tap, which side was hot and cold without any markings, how he didn’t jump when the water burst forth from the pipes, having sat stagnant from a lack of use. He loved you. And you were sick. You had no reason to be suspicious.

You knew him. For thirty years you had shared your bed, shared your bodies, shared your secrets, and your wishes. Not many could boast of a marriage of love, but you could. So, few could understand it. It only made the truth harder to bare.

You felt it after a few days. Like a film coating your tongue. At first you thought it was from the sickness, another symptom to add to your anxieties. You said nothing to your husband. You didn’t want to worry him. He had done so much for you already. The last thing you could do was take away his hope.

But it grew you see. What began as a film coating your tongue soon gave way to a weight in your chest, a skip in your heart, a dirge in your brain. You could not name it, could not utter its affect, only that it was there, ever present, calling to you from somewhere that you could not place. It permeated the cottage, though you saw little of it. If you had once found your home in the city suffocating it was nothing compared to this, rotting away in a crushed velvet chair, and itchy wool blanket stretched across your legs, the burgundy shawl you had knitted so many years ago wrapped around your shoulders as the window in front of you rested wide open, allowing the cool sea breeze to brush across you, bringing the sound of the roaring waves in with it. You fought against the cold, fighting to take in deep breaths to clear yourself and purge yourself of any ailment. Your eyes always remained fix, watching the waves meeting the sky. Ever changing and always fixed. Never ending. You had always loved looking at the sea, but you could imagine how easily one could grow tired of it.

Your husband spent his days diligently. He never seemed affected by the staleness of life that came with caring for a sick wife. Not in the same way you did, confined as you were. You did your best to write some letters, read a little, you had brought your paints, but your husband believed that would be too strenuous. Besides, what would you paint? You only ever saw the sea.
You always felt so tired. Not even the cups of tea or coffee he made you urged you into a more wakeful state. But it was better to rest. Clean air and rest. It was what the doctor had ordered, and what your husband more than happily prescribed. He buzzed around the cottage happy as a bee in summertime and offered you small smiles which you brightly returned. He never noticed that they never reached your eyes, but he was a simple man who had become accustomed to his simple wife. If you had a problem, you would have told him, he knew that. But perhaps the sickness had changed you. After all, he had done all this for you. What was a few false smiles to make the man happy after all he had done?

Nearly a week had passed before it began to feel like a hand on your throat. That boundless sea stretching before through the open window that brought the cold. That never ending sound of crashing water against solid rock. You truly understood how the cottage had received its name. The noise was never ending, and as still as you sat you could feel yourself rocking, back and forth, back and forth with the tide, and you were waiting, just waiting for the moment where the cruel sea would finally take mercy on you and fling you against the rocks. You might have done it yourself if you weren’t just so tired.

You should have been suspicious that your husband didn’t notice. Did not see that you were getting worse. How you could hardly muster up the energy for anything but the false smiles you threw his way. The letters lay strewn and incomplete. Your book began to gather dust as it sat half open. Your fingertips were stained black as you picked at the quill, the ink emptying into your skin. You never left the chair. You let yourself drift off there with the rising and setting of the moon.

Perhaps he had been waiting. Waiting until you were too weak to fight it. Perhaps he thought it would come too easily. You were already so ill. But it took its time. Fed on you slowly. You could not remember the last time you had ate or drank. When had been the last time your husband had brought you a cup of tea? When had been the last time you’d seen him? You had lost track of the time, as you had begun to watch a spider spin itself a web in the topmost corner of the room. Anything to take your eyes away from the outside world. From that clean sea air that was filling your body with salt and waiting for you to crystalize. You had thought he had loved you. And he did.

At least, he whispered it to you as he came to you, your eyes barely hanging open as he began to scoop you up. You moved willingly into his arms as he moved your arms to wrap around his neck, you rested your lips against the skin there, pressing a little kiss to it. He had hummed softly and had nuzzled his nose into your hair. “My love,” he called to you, and you pressed another kiss to his neck, so you know he heard you. Smiled against it. Always reassuring. “My love, I am so sorry”. He meant it of course.

Your eyes slipped closed, and in truth, you could have been in your chair again, with the way you rocked in tune to the sound of the crashing waves. The never-ending waves that made your stomach roll with hunger and your breath leave your body in a huff past lips that were so dry. When had they become so dry? The feeling of it all pressed so deep inside you, striking something so familiar, something that echoed, and drew together the sound of your breath and the lull of the waves until they fell in sync.

You gasped when your head came to rest on soft pillows for the first time in an age. Since you had been at home in those suffocating warm tones that you had longed to burn your eyes with. Since the last time your husband had lied beside you in your shared bed of thirty years and promised he would bring your suffering to an end. You had believed him then.

You heard the snip of the scissors. It was so loud against the backdrop that it made your eyes shoot open with more energy than you had been able to muster in the last few days. You watched as your husband pulled away a thick strand of your hair. Had it always been so silver? There was hardly a touch of the original colour left. You wondered if the sea had stripped it clean just like the rest of you. You lifted your gaze to look at your husband as he pulled the collection of hairs away, and he smiled down at you. You don’t know why you smiled back. You couldn’t help it. But he must have seen it then. How it didn’t reach your eyes, for his smile soon faded, and you watched those familiar eyes grow wet. You tried to reach your hand up, to cup his cheek, but he caught your wrist as best he could, the scissors still in his grasp. He pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of it, before lowering it back down to rest over your stomach. He left the scissors with you.

He looked at you for just a bit longer before he rose with a quick turn, as though he could no longer bear it. He went over to the dresser in the far corner and opened the top drawer. You could see the sway of your silver hair in the light that filtered through the window. It was a bright and clear day. Perhaps still morning.

You watched as he placed your hair inside of something, and began to work quickly, braiding the strand. It was simple. You had taught him how to make it. So that you could each braid your daughter’s hair before she went to bed. Her hair always came out so wavy in the mornings. She said it made her feel like a mermaid.

And suddenly you were reminded of the sea again, and you felt that film begin to coat your tongue again, the hand wrap around your throat, and the hunger became unbearable. You had never known a hunger like this, but you had known something adjacent to it once. Had locked it deep inside of yourself so many years ago. Before you knew your husband. Before you even knew yourself. You must have made some kind of noise. The first in so long. You saw your husband jump across the room, as he turned back to you, and you saw what he was holding in his hands.

It was a glass display case. The sun shone into in beautifully, refusing to cast a glare. Instead, it illuminated the contents. You caught sight of your own braid first. It stood out so starkly from the rest in its silver gleam. Wrapped in a loose circle, pinned in place. It reminded you of the butterflies and moths he pinned in the walls of his office at home. You had never liked them, but you had never minded them either. They made him happy. But your gaze followed along and soon perceived the others, taking them in fully. They ranged of course, the boldest being a lovely shade of red. The darkest a black so deep that it nearly blended in with the backing of the case. There was seven of them, all lined up beside your own. Beautiful strands of hair in braids, wrapped in loose circles.

The weight in your heart recognized itself. Recognized all those who had come before, and where they had gone. Your eyes were too dry to grow wet. There was too much salt in you now. But you knew what was to come. Your husband saw it too. Recognized the face he himself must have seen at least seven times before, although perhaps in different circumstances.

“My love you must understand,” he began, and he knew you would. You loved him after all, and he loved you. “It is like nothing I have ever experienced. I-I thought for you, I could fight it. Thought that, so long as I prepared for another soon, it would let me. But she-” he trailed off. “She wanted you.”

You do not know how you knew, but you knew that he meant the sea. There was no other guardian so watchful. No other being so cruel. No one else he could blame, outside of himself. It had to be her.

“I came here once, maybe ten years ago. I just wanted some peace…” he began again. “I loved you so much, but I felt suffocated.” You could understand. Had you not already spoken of the choking of your own home so many times? You wondered why you had never run away yourself. Because you loved him. And he loved you. “I came here, and she spoke to me. Told me what to do. Settled in my gut and made me so unbelievably hungry. So tired. You must feel it?” he asked. You could only nod. “She taught me how to feed her. How to sate her and in turn sate myself. It was so easy. I never took anyone of consequence. I never let it get this far,” he said. “I only let you get like this because I thought I could stop it. That I could help you.”

“I just needed rest,” you breathed out. “Just rest and clean air.”

“Yes, my love,” he put the case down and rushed to grab your hand. “I hadn’t felt the hunger in so long I thought I would be free of it. But she won’t release me. She won’t let me keep you now that she knows I have you.” The tears were streaming down his face now, and you wondered why his cruel lover allowed him to cry and not you. “It will be better this way. You’re so sick. I can make it go away. Make it so easy,” he choked now. He reached to the bedside table, and opened the drawer, pulling out a small vial. “You must drink this my love. Not even half the bottle. It will be like falling asleep.” He pressed the bottle into your hand before he moved to help you to sit up. Your hand gripped the scissors resting in your lap, although you were weak. He paid it no mind, focusing on the vial. “I mixed it with Raspberry Cordial, your favourite,” his voice was so sweet. “Please my love. I hate to see you suffer.” You wondered if he felt that way about the others.

You tried to pop the cork off on your own, but it continued to slide past your fingertips. He helped you. He always did. He pulled the cork off but kept the vial in your hand. He couldn’t do it. It would be your choice. How you would meet your end. He loved you. He had to give you that choice. You appreciated it. The vulnerability. The openness. The power he handed to you now. “Can you forgive me?” he asked. Isn’t that all the husbands in these stories ever want? Their love’s understanding. Their devotion. Their forgiveness.

You raised the vial. Held it to your lips, pressed the cool glass to your cracked lips, and took a deep breath through your clear nose, taking in the sweetness of the raspberry. It was almost enough to calm your racing heart. It caused the hunger to pang. “My love,” you whispered, before you tipped the vial back, the liquid settling into your throat. You saw the relief in his eyes, watched the smile rise in the corners, and you watched as he was about to say it. Watched as he was about to tell you how much he loved you for the last time. And you couldn’t bear to hear it.

It took all the energy you had; all the strength left in your broken body to do it. But you did. You tightened your grip on the scissors, fought the heaviness of your body to raise them, and as you held the liquid in your mouth you plunged the twin blades into your husband's neck.

He let out a cry, but the crashing waves swallowed it, just as they swallowed everything around you and cleaned you out. You dropped the vial and grasped his neck, pulling him close to you, the shock making him stiff, but easy to move. You brought his head to your lap, as you used to do with your children. His hands were reaching up to try and grasp at the scissors, but you batted them away. He could only look at you, mouth a gape, as you leaned your face down close to him, and opened your mouth. You watched the red begin to pour down his throat and splash on his face as he choked on it. You clamped a hand over his mouth. You did not remove it until he stilled. Red bled from his neck where you had kissed him earlier. His lips were stained to match yours. A near kiss made from raspberry cordial.

He never should have brought you there. Should have known better than to think that the story could end with a happily ever after. Could end with love conquering all. But he did love you, in his own way. It was his downfall. He loved you so much he brought you to the one place that would see to your inevitable doom. It would happen any moment now. You could smell it, tickling against your nose with the salt in the air.

But it happened as suddenly as it had happened slowly. Like the infection was drained or the growth removed. The hunger was satiated. The fatigue had disappeared. The erratic racing of your heart calmed, as the film that lingered on your tongue was replaced by the taste of raspberries. And the sea. The sea fell silent for the first time, and you felt like you could truly breathe again. It was all cleaned out.

You allowed yourself your tears as you waited until darkness fell. And when it did, with only the moonlight to guide you, you brought your husband to his cruel lover as you cast his body over the cliff. You said a prayer for him, although you doubt it would do him any good, after all he had done. You prayed for yourself in the same manner. You spat at the sea and cursed it. You spent the night with all the curtains drawn and the windows closed. You slept more peacefully than you should have allowed yourself to. But you were at peace. You had killed the man you loved. But you had set him free. Set yourself free. He could never hurt anyone again.

You filed the police report in the morning. Said your husband was nowhere to be found. That you had been planning to return home that morning, but when you woke up he had not been in bed. That you had found his shoes and coat by the cliffside. There would be no body to receive a Christian burial anyways. Why grant him what he had likely denied to others? Still, you left a little marker at Conch Cottage, a small cross, under which you buried his trophies, removing your own scrap of hair. You hoped to give them some kind of rest. It was the least you could do.

You returned home with the promise that the police would contact you if there was any sign of a body. You knew there would not be. There had never been any notice that anyone had gone missing. Man, woman, anything. The strands of hair were all that remained of beings that were unknown to the people who surrounded the sea. That meant the sea was covetous, and she took all the offering given to her.

You settled back in, to your house of brown, gold, and green, and you slept in your shared bed of thirty years, not alone for the first time, but now alone forever. You would never again feel his weight beside you. Would never be woken by a flailing limb, or a low whistle as the sun rose. Would never be kissed gently on the forehead each night when he believed you already asleep. Would never be lulled by the sound of his heavy breathing again.

You reminded yourself that he loved you. You reminded yourself that you loved him. You forced yourself to believe that it was never meant to go this way. That despite what drove him to madness, that he had never meant to bring you to any harm. You could forgive him for failing to save you. But you could not forgive him for all that he had done to others. All the strands of hair whose names and faces you would never know, but who would forever haunt you. Yet you could not bring yourself to admit to anyone what he had done. Could not bring yourself to offer anyone else peace.

It never got easier. Not even as it came to over a year. The children visited less. They could not imagine a home without their father, and in truth, you were afraid to leave. Afraid to leave the suffocating grain and familiar walls. Afraid to leave your mourning of your former life and be confronted with why it came to be.

In the hustle and bustle of the city you were safe. In your isolation only memory could hurt you. The secret of what you had done was easily buried in the thirty years of happiness you refused to be stained. You could be free of it, you were certain, if you willed it. And you had. Your forced yourself to live in the mausoleum of your life and were content to gather dust. A relic in a museum.

Until one day you awoke. You awoke and all was different. You felt the tether in your heart. That red line of fate that connected you across all distance and time. You felt it pull, and as you stumbled out of bed, it brought you to your knees as you felt a breath be torn from your lips, and as you struggled to breathe in, you tasted it. The sea salt as it stuck to the back of your throat.

And you understood now. Understood what your husband had truly tried to say. That if he hadn’t fed her, she would have fed on him. You understood it now as you began to feel the first lingering of that film on your tongue. As you felt the hunger begin to pang insatiably in your stomach. As you began to hear the call of the sea over everything else in your suffocating house of brown, gold, and green.