The Orchard

There’s crushed apples. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. And there’s blood. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. I wake on the floor amidst the mess. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Sticky, wet, rotting, sugary mess. I push down the terror from the sweet, metallic saliva that holds my mouth closed and try to decide how long I’ve been here. Light beats dull and muted through the dust covered windows in the east. I was starving close to sundown. My hunger, unyielding and predatory. And I could smell it on the air. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. My fingers close on matted hair to the right of me, and I ignore my violent self-loathing. I roll to my side to assess just how much blood has pooled around my victim. I am wasteful when I am mad with hunger, so I know what I will find. Great puddles with chunks of flesh and tissue. Bloody, spoiled apple cores being swallowed slowly by the fruit flies. I yank hard on the hair, dragging the body across the hardwoods. No heat. And the wet mess has coagulated in its deepest pools, while drying into crusty, maroon scabs at the edges. My head pounds with clouded confusion. I press my palms to my eyes and hold my thumbs against my temples. I breathe deep. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. And all the while, that sweet, metallic after-taste staining my teeth, sending my mind careening into the memory of my voracious hunt. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. And body after body just waiting to be plucked and ravaged. And syrupy chunks of once white, fruit flesh clinging to the mess. And glazed over eyes, once burning with fire. And sticky, wet, rotting sugar.