Here is a story in the always tricky second person point of view.
I hope you hadn’t just eaten, because…
YOU ARE HUNGRY
You are hungry. You have this feeling in your head like you might fall over if you’re without food for too long. You desire the sweetness of meat, the richness of cream, and the salt and gristle of many things.
These people around you, they don’t know how you feel. They could not imagine the sensation. You have a feeling, and they do not. And because of that, you cannot understand them.
You never could understand them anyhow.
You walk among these men and women and children and obey the laws of the street signs. The slow motion flow of a wave of human bodies. You look at the girl with the too low cut shirt, and the man with the bulging arms, and you wonder many things about them.
A person bumps you, and you glare at them, and they skirt back into the crowd.
They say “Sorry,” and you feel like they owe you more than that for their actions. But you cannot reach them as they are already out to the shores of one building. Disappearing into the prison of steel and glass.
You think so little of them now. You didn’t until this moment. But now the idea of them sickens you. The idea. But not the smell. The smell of the surrounding people is an aroma best described in layers. Sure, the sweat—the salty sweat that pairs with sweet–makes up the most immediate layer. But below that, you can detect the hairsprays and the natural oils, and the leftovers from the actions they did before today.
You still hold onto the briefcase, you still walk a few more steps in your business attire that cost you more money than anything in the world so flimsy should. But you despise it.
The words “counter” and “culture” and the word “rebellion” spring to your mind. But it is not the hunger. These words are not the hunger. The hunger you feel is real in a physical sense. You pass a bakery and a street shop selling meat in a condensed form, and yet none of these do for you what you thought they might.
You buy them, the worry about being late not even on your mind anymore, but even as you swallow more and more food, it does nothing for you at all.
But the gym. You pass this gym. And people running on treadmills, and they give you odd looks when you drool with the sight of them. So you walk inside this place and do what you must to get to the room where these people shed their sweaty, sweet clothing.
And the hunger grows. The length and breadth of flesh is now on display, modestly, but they are so much to you. You cannot control the ache inside you and must press your hand to your stomach. People give you strange looks again.
One person of your gender, in this changing room, asks you if you are okay. You sit down, and they ask you if you need them to go get help. This person is still unclothed and wrapped in only a towel.
Muscles, and exposed kneecaps, and the scent so strong. This person was on route to a shower, but you do not want the smell washed away.
You delay them, with waffling words and assurances of stability, until no one is around you. Until, by the random chance of the room’s flow, you are alone with them.
You are stronger by surprise, and unconsciousness prevents their taut muscles from doing anything to stop you. Your stomach contracts with pain and your vision blurs. Breathing so fast now. Your tongue and teeth feel so large in your mouth, and you’re salivating so hard it leaks down the tip of your lip.
You are hungry.