She'd finally gotten it all. Everything she'd always wanted. She was healthy, she was beautiful, and she had under her belt the three college degrees she had earned. Additionally, she was engaged to be married to the most eligible bachelor in the world, billionaire Peter Cloud, the CEO of Big Pharma who had invented the drug, Cloud-10™.

She was funny and smart; Peter was clever and always interesting. He was very attentive to her and her needs, emotionally, spiritually, and sexually.

She looked back on her past month abroad with Peter, on his fabulous yacht, the "Cloud 9." A month hopping the Greek isles with such a man was the perfect vacation for such a beautiful woman and, although it were coming to an end (all good things must), she also knew her next adventure with him would only follow. And on and on.

He proposed to her while docked at Santorini. She relived every emotion of that moment while looking outside her porthole at the classic Cycladic architecture.

She wondered how she had done it. Had she been kissed by an angel?

What had she done to get where she was now? Sitting pretty, set for life. She turned away from the window and walked toward the mirror. She burst into a spontaneous smile juxtaposed with tears of joy.

"Oh, but I am a lovely and sexy thang," she exclaimed. Everything had gone her way and she was happy.

"How much longer, Doctor? the nurse asked.

"I think it's time," he said gravely.

"Time to call it?" she asked, wanting to be certain.

"Yes. Time 15:39, Easter Standard Time.

"Will she suffer?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. We just turn off the IV. And if our drug formulation was accurate--no reason to suspect it wasn't--she probably had a very pleasant life experience until now. Yessiree, the CLOUD-10™ drug rewires the brain to do just that. No need to suffer to the end of terminal illnesses anymore. If the stuff weren't fatal in and of itself, hell, I'd try it myself. It's a wonderful way to wrap things up, and she certainly had it coming, after what the poor thing's been through her whole life."

"Wake up!"

The back of my head bangs against the steel wall of the converted truck container, as an enormous man in army fatigues yanks the potato sack from my head and shoulders. A second later, a cold bucket of ice water is thrown into my face. Some of the icy water goes into my mouth and I let out a sharp gasp. This elicits sarcastic laughter from the seven people gathered in the dimly lit room.

"Looks like she's alive," a second man, with a ruddy face, says around the cigarette in his mouth. He takes a step closer and blows the smoke from his cigarette in my general direction. His voice takes on a deep tone and he leans to almost stare into my eyes. "That's good. We need a live one."

Fear, as well as cold, causes my body to shiver violently. My clothes cling to my skin where the water has drenched them, and I hunch my shoulders to keep another shiver from taking hold. Finally, I find the courage to speak.

"What is this? Who are you? And what am I doing here?" I say through chattering teeth.

"Who we are does not matter," the enormous man says. My eyes roam to the hunting knife on his right hip.

"As to what you are doing here? You're about to find out," army fatigue man says with a devilish smile.

"Why? Why are you doing this," I yell; while yanking at the tape binding both wrists. "I don't even know you. Any of you! What reason do you have to do this?"

Fatigue man pulls back his right arm and smacks me hard across the face. I bite down hard on my tongue, the taste of blood filling my mouth.

"I was getting to that," army fatigue man says. The evil grin never quite leaves his face.

A tall woman, with stringy hair melts out of the shadows. Her eyes are extremely sunk in and she appears unwell. A meth addict perhaps? Hard to tell in the darkness enveloping the room.

"We're here to play a game," the woman says. Her eyes lock on mine and there is no mirth in them. Whatever this game, I know I will not enjoy it.

"The game is called win, lose, and die," the woman says through widely spaced teeth. "You either win, or you die. It's that simple."

Ruddy face man steps even closer to my chair of bondage. He leans down into my face. So close that I can smell his rancid breath and count every blackhead on his nose.

"The rules are very simple,"ruddy face says. He lets out another puff from his nearly expended cigarette. "As you can see, there are seven of us here...Not counting you. We're all terminal cancer patients. Some lung cancer, Sweet Nelly over there has pancreatic cancer, and I've got the ole melanoma. But don't go feeling too sorry for us. We don't want your pity. We're also all former soldiers. The best of the best until cancer got its hooks into us. That's why I say, we don't need your pity. None of us wants to leave this world groveling and on our knees. We want to leave this world as we are....As what we've always been...Soldiers. Warriors for the cause. And you're gonna help us do that! Or you'll die."

The stringy haired woman, named Sweet Nelly, comes to stand beside ruddy face. A glint of metal catches the candlelight and I realize she is holding a large knife similar to the one on fatigue man's hip. She expertly flips the knife in the air, catches it, and then slams it into the wood of the small table beside me. I glance at the knife before returning my gaze to her face.

"I don't think Ronald here is explaining the rules right. So let me simplify them a little more for you. This game is all about the hunt. You hunt us...We hunt you," Sweet Nelly says. She makes a show of glancing down at the watch on her nearly skeletal wrist.

"It's 10:37. That gives me just under thirty minutes to lay down the ground rules and leave you to work out some things. At 11 p.m., we're gonna head into the woods. And you're gonna do your best to hunt us down...One by one...And end our misery. You can use anything you find around here. Nothing is forbidden. Anything goes. You have until sunrise."

"What?" I cry and once again pull at my restraints. "I'm not hunting down anybody! You people are crazy. Cut me loose. I'm not playing your sick little game. I won't tell the authorities. I swear. But I'm not killing anyone."

The fatigue man backhands me. He places a booted foot on the edge of the chair and snarls into my face.

"I don't think your comprehending what we're saying," he says in a baritone growl. "You don't have a choice. You play the game...Or you die. You lose the game...You die. Those are the rules. You think we'd let you see our faces if we had any intention of letting you return to the real world while we're still alive? Think about it. You can't be that stupid!"

"Thank you, Charles...I've got this," Sweet Nelly says all too sweetly. At that moment, it becomes very clear who is the real mastermind behind this sick game.

"Like I said, you have until sunrise. And for every hour that all of us are still alive...You lose a finger," Sweet Nelly says with a sick smile. "One finger...Or one of us. Your choice."

"No...No...NO," I scream and pull furiously at my restraints. "No. Help! Help! Somebody help!"

It is Sweet Nelly who slaps me this time. My head rockets back and bangs against the metal wall yet again.

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Sweet Nelly yells into my face. "No one's gonna hear you out here. That's just stupid! Shut up!"

"No...You can't do this!" I scream back. I consider spitting in her face, but realize that would be a reckless move. Especially, with a knife jutting out of the table less than three feet from me. "You people are crazy! CRAZY!"

Ruddy face simply shrugs. "So what? Doesn't change anything," ruddy face says and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his front shirt pocket.

"But I'm just getting to the best part," Sweet Nelly states. Her eyes become narrow portals into the blackness of her evil soul, and she wrenches the knife from the wood of the table.

"You lose one of your fingers now. Think of it as an incentive. Your choice. Right pinky or left? Can't have you losing any opposable thumbs. Might make it hard to do a lot of things."

"Nooooo...," I am unable to keep the scream from my lips. "NOOOO!"

"Oh?" Nelly says. "Then, I'll choose."

Before I can bat an eyelash, ruddy face and fatigue man leap forward. A handkerchief is pressed against my nose and consciousness starts to slip away. Somewhere in the back of my mind, as I slip further and further down into unconsciousness, I feel a jolt of pain in my left hand. My left pinky. She is hacking off my left pinky.

11: 06 p.m.

Game time

I awaken sometime later, facedown on the floor. My restraints have been cut off and there is a bandage wrapped around my left hand. My left pinky is definitely gone. I spy it sitting in a mason jar of solution on the table where Sweet Nelly had plunged the hunting knife.

Climbing slowly to my feet, I glance around the room. The candle has almost completely burned down, but there is a stack of unlit candles in the corner. My mind races as I grab two candles and stick the wicks into the flame of the one left burning. Instantly, the light in the room grows brighter. I use the lit candles to assess what is around me.

I search through every cabinet, and in every nook, cranny, and corner of the truck container. My progress is hindered by the persistent pain in my left hand. It is only a five on a scale from 1-5. So, I can only guess that the area was numbed; or maybe I was drugged. Either way, when the nerves finally wake up; it's gonna hurt like a son of a meat biscuit. I need to get moving.

Staring at all of my treasures, I sit down on the floor to begin assembling my weapons. Tripwires, nets, arrows, spears, and the knife covered in my own blood I found in a drawer. Not a bad start. I've got only 41 minutes before the next finger comes off.

If they really want it. Let 'em come and get it!

End Part One

You are

a greedy bastard

Today, your grasping hands

pillaged

a most beautiful treasure

of a human

I hate that you mock

this impending season

of renewal and life

with your unwanted presence

I will rejoice the day

that smug look

is ripped

from your ancient face

One day

I will dance

at the news

of YOUR demise

You may have your way

(for now)

with our frail, earthly shells

but in the very end

we win

Rest in peace, C.T.

I will see your radiant smile again, sweet friend. I love you.

https://youtu.be/M4Zg3t5Kt5Y?si=ykFxBtObB115kM4W

“When death dies, all things live.”

I’m 6 years old. The oval-shaped river rock in my bed has long gone cold. I get out of bed and heave the rock back on top of the wood stove where it can reheat for my next bedtime.

It’s Saturday and I’m excited to go outdoors, despite the bitter cold. Today, my brothers are taking me sledding— one of my very favorite things to do in the winter.

We dress in many layers of shoddy clothing and we use several pairs of socks for gloves. Our “sleds” are any form of smooth plastic we can scavenge, but in a pinch, we use black trash bags.

As we head out the door, my older brother looks embarrassed and sad. We are sure to be teased, like always. Poor mountain kids and their lack of proper outdoor gear and “real” sleds are easy targets. At best, we are ignored and avoided, as if our poverty is somehow contagious.

We trudge on toward the sledding hill, determined to eke out every bit of joy from this day, no matter what—

A man clears his throat.

An uneasy laugh escapes a woman.

I look around the table, trying to remember what was said and by whom.

Eyes of blue and green implore me. Nicely styled hair and perfectly straightened teeth are all around. Their clothes appear boring at first glance, but actually scream old money to those who know.

My hand nervously reaches for my water glass. It brushes against my place setting: plates chilled and heated(!). I take a sip and realize the 6-year-old girl within will never cease to be impressed with tiny details such as these.

My fiancé gently squeezes my hand under the table as his family member politely repeats his question, “Do you ski? Or perhaps enjoy other winter activities?”

My first meal was a bitter one. Wrath.

It was a fire, an ugly one, that sent convulsions down my body, my throat closing, my stomach twisting, revolting against the sensation.

I wanted to kill. I wanted to maim. I wanted to hate.

This was the demonstration my benefactor provided me, that unholy demon. He gave it to me as a first meal, a small taste of the future I was to inherit.

When the all-consuming fire abated, I was left with a strange sense of satisfaction, a sensation that I had almost forgotten.

I was full. Full of energy, sustenance, life. As revitalized as if I'd just enjoyed a hearty breakfast.

It had been so long since I'd felt that. Years, perhaps. Maybe even a lifetime.

Despite the hate-filled nausea lingering in my stomach, I smiled.

And thus began my sampling of sin.

Lust tasted of cinnamon candy, burning and sweet all at once. I felt intimate moments, both tender and violent, and I savored them the way a kid savors halloween candy, the flavor often lingering within me for days.

Wrath was perhaps the most variable, with flavors ranging from pure agony, as my demonic master had shown me, to simply spicy. On the worst occasions, the flavor of murderers or criminals, it tasted of rot and decay, an unholy sensation that coated my tongue for days. The only thing that seemed to relieve this taste was that of Pride, although for what reason I cannot say, as it is my experience that Wrath and Pride are often accompanied by one another. Perhaps it is that the ultimate sin of murder is one that you cannot take pride in: you cannot brag of watching the light drain from someone's eyes, or of wrapping your hands around an innocent, fragile throat. The sin cannot be told. It is forced to fester, to rot alongside the dead.

Pride was unique in that there is no comparable taste. It was more of a sensation than anything else, a warmth, a confidence, seeping into every pore. I always found these meals the most satisfying. With Pride in my stomach, I felt as though I could do anything. However, it always weighed heavy in my gut, and I found that although it had the best flavor, it was the least energizing. I almost always followed these sweet meals with a long nap full of pleasant dreams, only to wake up and realize that my time for productivity was slipping away.

Greed tasted of copper and metal, like pennies settling on the tongue. I grew accustomed to this taste, as I found avarice to be the most common of sins— even more common than its sugary-sweet counterpart, Pride.

The consumption of Envy always left me hungrier than before. The taste of women who felt they were fat, men who felt they needed to be stronger, people who were constantly in search of betterment, so obsessively that it came at the cost of their own health. It was the taste of starvation, a taste I knew all too well, and so avoided at nearly all costs.

Sloth, on the other hand, was even more filling than Pride, although considerably more bitter. It tasted of sweat and crumbs, of static and exhaustion. It was this sin that made my eyes droop, and yet I found it to be the most motivating. In every lazy man, there is a deep pit of shame. The feeling of "I should be doing something... but I can't." The disappointment, the stagnation... the taste of it is enough to make even the most resolute of degenerates stand up and begin the process of betterment.

And at last, the finest taste of all: gluttony. I taste the meals of every man, the finest of cuisine, the richest of culinary delights. Through the rich man I savor the most expensive of dishes, and through the impoverished I feel the relief of a meal, however humble, after so long. I taste of excess and luxury, the finest of flavors.

The taste of Gluttony is what truly cemented the benefit of my decision. I knew I'd made the right choice in accepting the devil's deal.

And in feeding on the sin's of others, I found a way of perhaps cultivating my own sin's. Not intentionally, of course, but rather as a side effect of my condition. With my whole life defined around the consumption and discernment of sin, it was perhaps inevitable that I fall victim to it in some form.

That form came in the shape of a business venture: a weight loss clinic. A confessional for the desperate. Here I could feast upon Gluttony, revel in Envy, and satisfy my own greed. I could take away their sins... for a price. Thus I kept myself fed and clothed, all in one. I thrived on the insecurities of others. I kept them coming back, month after month, offering just enough progress for them to feel accomplished, but just enough subtle sabotage to prolong their sin, to satisfy my dietary needs for as long as I wish.

I continued along this path unhindered until the day I tasted a new flavor. It was the unmistakable cinnamon taste of lust, but there was a new flavor there, a deep, rich flavor, smooth as silk.

It was coming from my most devoted client, a woman I'd been seeing for nearly the entire duration of my clinic's lifespan— going on 3 years now, and 5 since my... dietary shift. She was married with an infant son when she arrived, and was struggling with her weight and diet as she recovered from her pregnancy. Her son was now three, but her destructive eating habits remained.

The emotion momentarily stunned me, and I stumbled to find my words.

She seemed to find my shock enticing, smiling at my blunder. And it was then that I realized what the difference was.

I was not just feeding off of her lust. The thing I was tasting was lust... for me.

I nearly laughed aloud. It was too good to be true. Here it was, the opportunity to have an endless source of food. I could feed off of her lust forever, indulging her forbidden pleasures while secretly satisfying my own hunger. It was too good to be true. Especially from one such as her, ripe with endless sin.

It was a delicate process, but I achieved it. With my insider knowledge of her feelings and insecurities, I could easily goad her into doing what I wanted... and all the while she believed she was goading me. It was a beautiful, complex dance of sin and deceit, and I relished every moment.

At first, our meetings were only once a month. Never before or since have I experienced such a delicious rush of emotions, both physically and mentally. It was, to put it bluntly, the best sex I'd ever had. The taste of her primal lust lingered in my mouth long after it was done.

We grew bolder, and soon we were meeting nearly every day. Sometimes even in her own house. Each time, her flavor grew stronger. Cinnamon and cream. My stomach, my tongue, my brain, was full of it. It became all I could think about. I wanted more. More. And more.

And finally, I got more. I achieved my ultimate satisfaction. In one of our meetings in her home, in her bed, bodies on display, at the culmination of our desires, I felt it, like the infusion of dye in water, spreading throughout each of my limbs. It was so deep, so complete, that I felt as if I would never need to eat again. In fact, I was sure this feeling would still remain in my system long into my old age, long after my body ceased to be able to perform.

I can only describe it as eternal bliss. Deeper than any orgasm, longer than any passionate love, purer than any drug-induced felicity.

For a minute, and then another, and then another... life was perfect. I could easily believe that this was it, I'd achieved the emotion that normal men could only dream of.

Then came the fire.

In the five years of meals I'd tasted, there were none as potent or painful as the first meal, the one given to me by the demon. No wrath, not even that of murderers, was ever as cruel or painful.

Now I understood.

The first meal was not a gift or an example.

It was a prophecy.

The demon was warning me, in his cryptic, mocking way, of the fate I would meet. The reason that the wrath was so potent, so cruel, so painful, was the same reason that my forbidden lover's lust was so much stronger.

Because it was directed at me.

Now, I was feeling the same fire that the demon had once fed me, though impossibly stronger and longer than I could have ever imagined.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Hell hath no fury like a husband cheated on.

My lover was sobbing. My body had not yet caught up to the shock. I was still erect in pleasure, still reeling from the violent shift between euphoria and agony.

Before I could react, before I could scramble for my clothes or run for my life, I found myself blooming with a new agony. At first, I thought it was a new, more potent sin. Then I tasted rot— the taste of murder— and I realized this agony was physical.

I had been shot. I was dying.

The world faded away into black. I waited for the end.

Instead, a familiar, grotesque face appeared.

"Hello, old friend," the demon said.

"What do you want?" My voice was stronger than I'd expected it to be.

"Oh, nothing in particular. I'm simply here to deliver your last meal." He chuckled to himself.

I flinched involuntarily, expecting an onslaught of wrath.

"No, no, nothing that violent. You've already tasted the worst I have to offer. There's only one sin you have yet to taste..."

"Oh yeah? And what's that?"

"Your own."

The demon raised his spindly fingers to my lips, and I felt the incoming onslaught even before I could taste it, like animals fleeing the scene of an earthquake or hair standing on end in anticipation of a lightning strike.

It was a meal like no other. I tasted the sweetest sugars, the bitterest unripe fruit, the distinct burn of spices.

The most overwhelming of all was the flavor of Greed. Copper pennies and salt.

I realized with a jolt that Greed did not just taste like money. It was not the sour flavor of metal that I was tasting.

It was blood.

The blood of all the people I'd exploited, all the sin's I'd encouraged. The blood of the wrathful man and his unfaithful wife that ended my life. The blood of the sick, the blood of the hungry. It might not be entirely on my hands, but it was in my mouth. I was tasting it. Drinking it like a vampire.

And then I realized I wasn't just tasting it. I was feeling it. The sensation of liquid was bloating my stomach, coating my throat. Hot and sticky, impossible to swallow. I found I was choking on it. Spitting it down the front of my shirt, yet still it kept coming. Filling ever orifice. My nose. My lungs. My throat. I coughed and spluttered, gagging on the invisible blood.

And thus it was my own sin that killed me.

As he holds her close, he buries his face into the crook of her neck and breathes her in. She has such a sweet, gentle scent. It's in no way overpowering or headache-inducing. Quite the opposite, actually. It's soothing, alluring. It kindles a fire in his loins. He presses his lips to her skin, hungry for more.