The heavy, humid air of the southern summer clung to the night like a second skin, pressing down on the small wooden shacks that huddled together at the edge of the plantation. The slave quarters were quiet, save for the occasional murmur of voices and the distant rustling of leaves in the nearby woods. The cicadas sang their endless, mournful tune, a background hum to the suffering that pervaded every corner of this place.
Inside one of the cabins, a young man lay on the dirt floor, his body curled up in pain as he clings to a worn Bible. His back was raw and bleeding from the whipping he'd endured earlier that day. He shifted slightly, his breath hitching as the movement pulled at the fresh wounds. His ribs jutted out beneath his skin, his stomach hollow from days without food. He could feel the hunger gnawing at him, a constant, insistent ache that never went away.
"All of us have become like one who is unclean–" the boy choked on his words.
"Boy, you best be stayin' still," whispered an elderly woman, her voice low and hushed. She knelt beside him, her weathered hands trembling as she pressed a damp cloth to his back. "Ain't no sense in makin' it worse."
He didn't respond, just clenched his teeth and stared at the wall. His eyes burned with a fierce, defiant light, even as his body trembled with exhaustion. He hated the master, hated him more than he'd ever hated anyone in his life. But what could he do? He was nothing, just a body to be used and discarded as they saw fit.
"Here, take this," the woman murmured, glancing nervously at the door. She slipped a small piece of bread into his hand, barely enough to fill his palm. "It ain't much, but it's somethin'."
He stared at the bread for a moment before shoving it into his mouth, chewing slowly to make it last. It was dry and tasteless, but he forced it down, his body screaming for more. He wanted to ask for another piece, but he knew better. There wasn't enough to go around.
"Thank ya," he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The woman nodded, her eyes filled with sorrow. "You hang on now, you hear? Don't you let 'em break you, boy. Don't you dare."
He closed his eyes, the words echoing in his mind. Hang on. How was he supposed to hang on when there was nothing left to hold on to?
"And all our righteous acts are like filthy rags." The boy whispered to only himself.
The door to the cabin flung open, and the young man's heart lurched in his chest. The master strode in, his boots thudding heavily on the bare floor. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and red-faced, with eyes as cold as ice. He looked around the room, his gaze sweeping over the huddled figures of the slaves.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice dripping with contempt. "Ain't this a cozy little scene. And here I thought y'all would be out in the fields, earnin' your keep."
He stopped in front of the young man, his lips curling into a sneer. "You think you can steal from me and get away with it, boy?" he spat, his voice rising. "Think you can take what ain't yours and not pay the price?"
The young man didn't answer, just stared up at him, his eyes dark with hatred. The master's face twisted with fury, and he reached down, grabbing the young man by the hair and yanking him to his feet.
"Look at me when I'm talkin' to ya!" he roared, shaking him like a rag doll. "You ain't nothin', you hear me? Nothin' but a worthless piece o' property. And I'll do whatever I please with ya."
He shoved the young man back, sending him crashing to the floor. Pain exploded in his back as he hit the ground, but he didn't cry out. He wouldn't give the master the satisfaction.
The master turned to the other slaves, his eyes narrowing. "Any o' y'all caught helpin' this thief," he snarled, his voice cold and hard, "will get double the punishment. You hear me?"
No one moved, no one spoke.
He spat on the floor, then turned and stomped out, slamming the door behind him. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the young man's ragged breathing.
He lay there for hours, the pain throbbing through his body, his mind a whirl of dark, fevered thoughts. He thought about running, about escaping into the woods and never looking back. But he knew it was impossible. He'd seen what happened to those who tried.
His stomach growled, the hunger gnawing at him like a living thing. It had been days since he'd had more than a scrap of food, and his body was weak, trembling with the effort of just staying alive.
As the night wore on, he felt something shift inside him. It was a slow, creeping sensation, like a shadow spreading through his veins, numbing the pain, dulling the hunger. It was a strange feeling, almost like falling asleep, but instead of slipping into darkness, he felt himself growing sharper, more aware.
His mind filled with images, flashes of violence and blood. He saw himself tearing the master apart, devouring him piece by piece. He saw the fear in the master's eyes as he begged for mercy. And he felt…satisfaction. A dark, twisted satisfaction that sent a shiver down his spine.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No, that ain't right."
But the thoughts wouldn't go away. They clung to him, whispering in his ear, urging him to give in, to embrace the hunger.
And then, in the darkest hour of the night, when the world was silent and still, he felt it. A gnawing, ravenous hunger that went beyond anything he'd ever known. It was like a fire burning in his belly, consuming him from the inside out.
He doubled over, clutching his stomach, his mouth watering at the thought of food. But not just any food. It was something specific, something he couldn't quite place.
His gaze drifted to the door, and he knew. He knew what he needed, what he craved. It was the master. The master's flesh, his blood. The thought was horrifying, but it was also…exciting.
"No," he whispered again, his voice shaking. "No, I can't…"
But the hunger was too strong, too powerful to resist. He stumbled to his feet, his body weak and trembling, his vision blurring. He needed to find the master. Needed to feed, or he would die.