Read Online Hunger by Jackie Morse Kessler - Free Book Online
Authors: Jackie Morse Kessler
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trembled. She looked at them, with their Piri Piri prawns and soft-shell mud crab and rock oysters, their cheese plates decorated with apricots and cucumbers and dates, the bouillabaisse and yuzu sauce. She watched them as they ate, with no concern other than gorging themselves. She listened to the sounds they made, slobbering, slurping, rooting around their plates like pigs and leaving their droppings for servers to trot away. They feasted, oblivious to Lisa's rage.
They ignored her, the same way her mother did.
Lisa narrowed her eyes. No, she wouldn't let them ignore her. She was here among them. She'd announce herself to them, make them see her, make them feel her.
The Scales burned in her mind, and once again the world drowned in blackness as Lisa unleashed the power of Famine. Lost to the darkness, she didn't see the food on the plates disintegrate, but she felt every entrée and appetizer and dessert transform into ash. She spread her arms and the hunger reached out, person by person, touching everyone in the restaurant, from the busboy trying to earn enough money to offset university costs and the assistant manager filling in yet again for the womanizing owner who was off with one of his three mistresses, to every single customer seated and standing and waiting for a table. Stomachs growled. Mouths dried. And tempers shortened.
No one at the restaurant knew what had happened to the food; surely, they must have eaten. But they were miserable, the whole lot of them—and they were utterly ravenous. Waiters pawed through breadbaskets, only to find them empty. In the kitchen, the chefs raided the refrigerators and the pantries, only to be screamed at by the harried assistant manager, who felt the stirrings of a sugar drop. In the dining room, customers began to complain: the portions had been too small; the food hadn't been cooked properly; they never received their orders, and so on. One server, already surly from dieting and loathe to think of the celery sticks and potted cheese that waited, snapped at the patron who was leaving without the courtesy of a tip.
Blood boiled. And soon, fists flew.
The evening news and all the dailies would report it, of course, as a "Food Fight." The net result would be three broken limbs, four concussions, twenty-three lawsuits, two broken chairs, one scathing food review, and the sacking of the assistant manager.
Standing away from the raging people who'd spilled out of the restaurant, witnessing the chaos and now the slowly impending order in the form of police and ambulances and television cameras, Lisa stared in mute horror. At first, after the power of Famine had rolled back inside of her and color had again filled the world, Lisa had been numb, safe in the null void she dwelled in most of the time, cocooned from emotions and consequences. (Even the Thin voice couldn't reach her in that state, one she found easily whenever she exercised herself to the point of exhaustion.) But the shouts and the cries and the incessant chatter of the people near her sent cracks along the edges of that void, and soon feelings leaked through.
There she stood, seeing the results of her handiwork. One of the people getting loaded into an ambulance was a girl younger than Lisa. A table had gotten pushed over, onto her, and had broken her leg. Lisa had felt it. And at the time, she hadn't cared—all that had mattered was showing everyone what it meant to be truly hungry. But now she heard the girl's whimpers and sobs, and she felt the anguish and impotent rage of the girl's parents.
Lisa had done that.
And God, even with the taste of foods too numerous to count somehow on her tongue, even in the face of all the horror she'd just caused, Lisa was hungry.
Her breath started coming too fast, and her throat was far too tight. She needed to climb on her bike and exercise away the guilt; she had to fast, to lock her hunger away. She shivered, colder now than ever before.
She was a monster—as ugly
They ignored her, the same way her mother did.
Lisa narrowed her eyes. No, she wouldn't let them ignore her. She was here among them. She'd announce herself to them, make them see her, make them feel her.
The Scales burned in her mind, and once again the world drowned in blackness as Lisa unleashed the power of Famine. Lost to the darkness, she didn't see the food on the plates disintegrate, but she felt every entrée and appetizer and dessert transform into ash. She spread her arms and the hunger reached out, person by person, touching everyone in the restaurant, from the busboy trying to earn enough money to offset university costs and the assistant manager filling in yet again for the womanizing owner who was off with one of his three mistresses, to every single customer seated and standing and waiting for a table. Stomachs growled. Mouths dried. And tempers shortened.
No one at the restaurant knew what had happened to the food; surely, they must have eaten. But they were miserable, the whole lot of them—and they were utterly ravenous. Waiters pawed through breadbaskets, only to find them empty. In the kitchen, the chefs raided the refrigerators and the pantries, only to be screamed at by the harried assistant manager, who felt the stirrings of a sugar drop. In the dining room, customers began to complain: the portions had been too small; the food hadn't been cooked properly; they never received their orders, and so on. One server, already surly from dieting and loathe to think of the celery sticks and potted cheese that waited, snapped at the patron who was leaving without the courtesy of a tip.
Blood boiled. And soon, fists flew.
The evening news and all the dailies would report it, of course, as a "Food Fight." The net result would be three broken limbs, four concussions, twenty-three lawsuits, two broken chairs, one scathing food review, and the sacking of the assistant manager.
Standing away from the raging people who'd spilled out of the restaurant, witnessing the chaos and now the slowly impending order in the form of police and ambulances and television cameras, Lisa stared in mute horror. At first, after the power of Famine had rolled back inside of her and color had again filled the world, Lisa had been numb, safe in the null void she dwelled in most of the time, cocooned from emotions and consequences. (Even the Thin voice couldn't reach her in that state, one she found easily whenever she exercised herself to the point of exhaustion.) But the shouts and the cries and the incessant chatter of the people near her sent cracks along the edges of that void, and soon feelings leaked through.
There she stood, seeing the results of her handiwork. One of the people getting loaded into an ambulance was a girl younger than Lisa. A table had gotten pushed over, onto her, and had broken her leg. Lisa had felt it. And at the time, she hadn't cared—all that had mattered was showing everyone what it meant to be truly hungry. But now she heard the girl's whimpers and sobs, and she felt the anguish and impotent rage of the girl's parents.
Lisa had done that.
And God, even with the taste of foods too numerous to count somehow on her tongue, even in the face of all the horror she'd just caused, Lisa was hungry.
Her breath started coming too fast, and her throat was far too tight. She needed to climb on her bike and exercise away the guilt; she had to fast, to lock her hunger away. She shivered, colder now than ever before.
She was a monster—as ugly
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