The Liar’s Snare

When Hunger Rules

I look in his eyes and lie — and he likes it. His features grow soft. His heart skips a beat. He gently places one large hand on my shoulder. But his eyes — His eyes are hungry and full of desire.

I turn my head, so he doesn’t see the smile spread to the corners of my mouth. He’d catch it if he wanted — if he wanted anything other than to possess me, own me, to use me for his own physical needs.

I let my eyes grow big and wet as I stare into the horizon, where the setting sun highlights the cliffs in the distance and bury my feet deep into the soft soil.

“He never came home.” I quake. “He saved me from the fall, but… but… he died in the process.”

He rubs large circles on my back, leaning closer, drawing me into his arms like a cage, taking long deep strokes down my arms. His breath is hot on my cheek.

I pretend not to notice. “My fiance’,” I say. “He fell right over there.” My feet turn to long twisted tendrils as I point to a far off cliff caught in the last glimmer of the sun. But his eyes remain set to my heaving chest.

“I come up here every so often to — to — to remember him.” I plunge my face in my hands, and he draws me to his chest, where I hear the deep thrumming of his heart, pounding with need. He reeks with the scent of it.

Gently he presses hot kisses to the top of my head as I dutifully pour soft, plump tears into his shirt. And as the last rays drift into shadow, right on cue, he lifts my head to his trembling lips full of intention and anticipation.

What was it about humans that draws tragedy to contact? Does physically holding someone keep the terrors at bay?

They can’t. They won’t. Then never will.

I look into his eyes, timid and hesitant, as my feet plunge deeper into the soil. Toes turn to long tendriled roots that scour through the earth before finally catching the edges of solid stone — And I can’t help but smile, broad and wide.

He hesitates for a single moment before I surge up to meet him, pushing him to the ground. He yields beneath my touch — they always do — his eyes are heated and hopeful. I laugh.

Kneeling over him, I shake my hands, loosening the fine tendrils and vines that had crafted the clever illusion. With one viney hand, I stroke his cheek; the other, I plunge deep into his heart and drain him dry.

I do kiss him in the end. It’s only fair when he’s worked so hard to get his way.

But his use is now at an end. Satiated, I use my roots to drag him under and tuck him neatly beneath the stone.

Then I wait — For the next hungry man who leans into the lie.

Written in response to Microcosm’s weekly prompt: Lyin’ About the Dyin’