The hall smelled of wet wool and old blood.

It was a long table.

Stone.

Cold.

My father sat at the head.

He did not eat.

He watched the fire.

I sat by the door.

The door was heavy.

Iron-banded.

Locked from the outside.

I could see the handle.

I could not touch it.

The guards stood by the walls.

They held spears.

They looked at me.

They did not blink.

My father’s eyes were red.

Not from anger.

From hunger.

He reached for a bowl.

The bowl was empty.

He looked at me.

I held my knife.

I had been sharpening it.

On a stone.

For hours.

The blade was bright.

It reflected the fire.

It reflected my face.

My face was pale.

My hands shook.

I stopped shaking.

I had to be steady.

The meat was on the table.

Raw.

Red.

Pulsing slightly.

It was not beef.

It was not pork.

It was something else.

Something that moved.

The guests did not eat.

They sat.

They waited.

Their faces were smooth.

Like masks.

Like clay.

I looked at my father.

He looked at the meat.

He smiled.

It was a sad smile.

He had always been kind.

He taught me to ride.

He taught me to shoot.

He taught me to kill.

But he never taught me this.

The room grew cold.

The fire died down.

The shadows lengthened.

The guests began to hum.

A low sound.

A drone.

It vibrated in my teeth.

I felt a pain in my skull.

A splitting pain.

I gripped the table.

The wood creaked.

My father stood up.

He was tall.

He was strong.

He wore the armor.

The old armor.

Rusted.

Dented.

He walked to the center of the room.

He picked up a bone.

A large bone.

White.

Clean.

He began to eat it.

He chewed.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

The sound was wet.

Thick.

I watched.

I could not look away.

My father looked at me.

His mouth was full.

He nodded.

It was a command.

It was a blessing.

It was a curse.

I stood up.

I walked to the table.

The guests watched.

The guards watched.

My father watched.

I picked up the meat.

It was warm.

It pulsed against my palm.

It beat.

Like a heart.

I brought it to my mouth.

I bit down.

It was sweet.

It was iron.

It was life.

I swallowed.

The taste lingered.

It filled my throat.

It burned.

It spread.

I felt a change.

My vision blurred.

The room spun.

The guests were gone.

The guards were gone.

The table was gone.

I was alone.

In the dark.

I was in the cell.

The stone walls were wet.

The air was thick.

I coughed.

I spat.

It was red.

It was thick.

I looked at my hands.

They were stained.

Deep red.

It would not wash off.

I had been here before.

I knew this.

I had been here.

Many times.

The cycle.

The wheel.

The hunger.

I remembered.

My father had been me.

Before.

And before.

And before.

The betrayal.

The one who opened the door.

It was not the guards.

It was not the enemies.

It was the blood.

The kin.

We eat each other.

We live in each other.

There is no escape.

The door opened.

Light flooded in.

Blinding.

White.

A figure stood there.

Small.

Young.

Wearing my face.

My old face.

My young face.

It was my son.

He held a knife.

He held a bowl.

He looked at me.

His eyes were red.

Not from hunger.

From love.

Obsessive.

Deep.

He stepped into the room.

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

He walked to the table.

He set down the bowl.

It was full.

Raw meat.

Pulsing.

He sat.

He looked at me.

He waited.

I looked at him.

I saw myself.

I saw the trap.

I saw the truth.

The system.

The ritual.

It was not punishment.

It was sustenance.

We were not prisoners.

We were the food.

And the eater.

And the eaten.

All at once.

I looked at the meat.

It called to me.

It sang.

A low hum.

The same hum as before.

My son picked up the bone.

He began to eat.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

He chewed slowly.

Deliberately.

He looked at me.

He smiled.

It was my smile.

Sad.

Kind.

Cruel.

I realized then.

I was not the father.

I was the meat.

I had always been the meat.

My father had been the meat.

And the one before.

We are the fuel.

The fire burns.

The hall remains.

The hunger remains.

I looked at my hands.

They were not stained.

They were transparent.

I could see the veins.

Blue.

Dark.

I was fading.

I was becoming part of the wall.

Part of the stone.

Part of the dark.

My son finished the bone.

He wiped his mouth.

He stood up.

He walked to me.

He reached out.

His hand was cold.

He touched my face.

Gentle.

Soft.

Tears in his eyes.

He whispered.

I could not hear.

But I felt it.

In my bones.

In my blood.

He was saying goodbye.

He was saying hello.

He was saying forever.

I closed my eyes.

I opened my mouth.

I did not scream.

I did not cry.

I let it take me.

The pain.

The loss.

The end.

I was gone.

The room was empty.

The fire was out.

The door was open.

The light was bright.

The next one was coming.

Always coming.

Never stopping.

The wheel turns.

The hunger grows.

The blood flows.

The story ends.

But it does not stop.

It begins again.

And again.

And again.

I am the wall.

I am the dark.

I am the silence.

I am the wait.

I am the hunger.

I am the meal.

I am the feast.

I am the end.

I am the start.

The stone is cold.

The air is still.

The door is closed.

The light is dim.

A shadow moves.

A figure approaches.

Small.

Young.

Wearing a face I know.

I know the eyes.

Red.

Bright.

Full of love.

Full of hate.

Full of nothing.

The figure sits.

The figure waits.

The figure looks.

I look back.

From the wall.

From the stone.

From the dark.

I am watching.

I am waiting.

I am hungry.

The feast begins.