When the sun finally rose, he methodically availed himself of the dead's belongings, precisely as he always did, but for the first time, he could not bring himself to look directly at the body. Usually, he felt absolutely no sting of remorse or burning shame—he had successfully convinced himself that he was entirely immune to such weak human frailties—but now, a strange, heavy guilt sat like a cold stone deep in his gut. He had obscenely gorged himself in a terrifying, unholy communion that had lasted throughout the entire night, returning over and over to tear more flesh from the cooling corpse and fully sate his insatiable hunger. He had eaten until he was bloated, profoundly sickened, and deeply ashamed.

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She fought him off when she could, her arms straining against his weight, her breath hitching as she prayed for him to collapse into a drunken stupor. On good nights, he’d pass out mid-act, his body slumping onto her like a felled oak, his breath hot and sour against her neck. She would shove him aside, her muscles trembling, and crawl to the edge of the bed, curling into herself to escape the memory of his touch. On bad nights, she endured the full brutality of his lust, his fingers digging into her flesh, leaving crescent-shaped bruises that bloomed like dark flowers across her arms and thighs.

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He’d deliberately pick fights with men leaving the tavern, a predator stalking his prey. Experience had honed his dangerous edge; he was now a skilled brawler, a calculated bully, and stronger than any man had a right to be. The young women of the town, caught in the romantic fantasy of taming a wild man, were drawn to him. But at home, the attention he received was far less flattering. His father refused to speak to him, fearing his own rage, and his mother wept to see the man her son had become.

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