It nested in her chest. It was a scrawny, featherless thing, forever screeching for more. But she had already given it her whole heart. Strip by tattered strip, every valve, vein, artery had gone to its ceaseless appetite. Still it cried from inside, rattling her ribs in its hungry fury.
“Hush,” she told it. “Soon.” But words could not soothe it. Only beating flesh.
And so she went into the night, searching for a fresh supply. Hearts were easy enough to come by in the city. Here was one ripe for picking—so ready to pluck he almost tumbled into her hand.
“I can feel your heart race,” he murmured as they slipped into the shadows.
She did not have the heart to tell him it was only the beating of wings. He would learn soon enough. And as she fed her pet, she pondered again the readiness with which we give ourselves away, wondering what might yet grow from it all.
∼ Miriam H. Harrison
© Copyright Miriam H. Harrison. All Rights Reserved.