By Scott Fazekas

To indulge in dark desires always comes with a price. What would he give up to satisfy his craving?

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The disheveled man stares through the darkness at his hated heart’s desire: the brightly lit storefront of Kung’s Liquors. He chews his frayed bottom lip and shivers in the drizzle.

The craving is strong within him. He sways gently, trying to fight it but he feels his control slipping. A hopeless part of him cries and tries to fight the craving. It starts by entreating him to think of his former wife, his distant children.

It tries the same old argument: it’s not too late. You can reconcile. All you must do is turn now and walk away. Call her. She might take you back, even if she doesn’t know all the awful truth.

He shakes his head violently, like a dog trying to shake a particularly persistent bloodsucker from an ear. A low whine escapes him. This hopeless part of him is being ridiculous, the beast inside growls. She can never know the whole truth. He cannot crawl back to her, not like this. Love alone is not strong enough to defeat his craving.

And there are things he cannot tell her, cannot tell anyone. He hates even to admit to himself the monstrous deeds he’s done while under the influence. Sometimes he shrugs it off, acknowledging his powerlessness. Other times he’s found himself standing on a high precipice, debating within himself the consequences of throwing his corrupt body into the abyss.

Sometimes, as he lies curled in a cold, foetal ball under a bridge, he whines as he realizes he will one day fling himself into that finality.

It’s been called a disease, this hideous craving inside him. It’s whispered that, treated as a disease, its sufferers can live normal, healthy lives. If they decide to.

And there is the real key, he knows. Those with the disease must decide for themselves to make the change. They must be strong enough to both defeat the craving and face society with the knowledge of their own hideous weaknesses. This has ever been the problem.

Tucking his shaking hands in his pockets, curling his dirty jacket around his thin torso, he knows (if he is honest with himself) that he truly does not want to change.

He could, though. He could control this thing inside him. If he really wanted to, he could. It would be easy to walk away, never to taste the elixir of the gods again, never feel the delicious burning sensation as the life-giving fluid courses down his throat and fills his belly with a warm, fiery glow.

What has it ever brought him aside from pain, forced solitude, and self-loathing? Aside from the momentary bliss he feels, is the price of his tortured memories worth this repeated self-debasement?

The beast inside him roars: Yes! Then it softens its tone. This can be controlled, it whispers. He is no addict (not yet, at any rate). The only problem here lies in this ludicrous self-denial. He has only this one life and this is a path to ecstasy, after all. He should be free to live his own life as he chooses. Why the struggle? Carpe diem! He should simply lose himself in this intense pleasure once again and tomorrow will take care of itself.

It is insidious, this beast.

This is what has led him to be standing here in the dark mist in front of this liquor store on the edge of the city.

He watches the wizened couple as they clean their store prior to closing. He stares as they pass the rows of golden Irish whiskey, the sparkling pale yellows of Cuban rum, the deep amber of American bourbon. He licks his lips as the small woman’s plump torso is refracted through clear bottles of Scandinavian vodkas. His hands clench and shake as the short man dusts off bottles of sherry-colored single malt Scotches.

He can’t stand it anymore. He must taste it once again. Just this one last time, he tells himself as he strides across the street to the liquor store, once more and then he’ll be able to think more clearly. He’ll work it out.

The beast laughs, and the hopeless part of him turns and curls up inside. It knows it has lost the battle again. Soon it will stop fighting. Then he will truly be lost.

He can’t admit that his will to resist the disease is almost broken, for in admission lies a horrible acceptance.

A bell tinkles as he pushes the door open. The woman looks up at him, brow wrinkled at his disheveled appearance.

“We close now. Closed. You come back tomorrow,” she says petulantly.

He makes no reply. Hands still in his pockets, he moves over to the man — presumably Kung — who has stopped his dusting and now looks up. This shriveled little man is an old campaigner and he looks at the disheveled man with a practiced eye. Kung nods a little. He makes an inviting gesture at the gleaming rows of double-distilled grain alcohol.

The disheveled man glances at a bottle of Glendronach 12-year old single malt. He briefly watches the light from the overhead dance in its maroon depths, reminding him a little of sunlight on a beach in a happier, less immediate time.

He removes his hands slowly from his pockets. The craving is so strong on him now that his throat feels tight and his heart pounds in his chest.

The little liquor store owner smiles slightly, thinking he understands the pull inside this man. Kung has grown comfortably rich peddling his poisons to similar sufferers.

Gasping in relief, the man lets his tenuous control slip. The welcome, familiar pain of bones elongating, muscles twisting, tendons straining washes over him. His mind reels at the power and bloodlust crashing through him. He finishes in just a few seconds, very fast even for him — he was that close. Thoroughly aroused, his senses are on fire and every nerve ending sings. He growls deep in his heavily furred chest — God, how he loves this!

The woman shrieks, and Kung gobbles. With a fluid, vicious motion Kung’s throat is slashed open. Before the body can crash to the floor, the transformed man turns and leaps onto the woman. A single bite of powerful jaws and the woman is silent.

The transformed man gorges ecstatically on the woman. The hot, sweet blood burns going down his throat and down deep in his belly, filling him with an incredibly intense feeling — an indescribable release. His entire consciousness is overpowered by the scent and taste and consistency of the blood. His body quivers in pleasure as he wallows in her, drinking her lifeblood down in huge gulps. His immediate lust is sated before he can turn his attention to Kung and he wobbles on unsteady legs over to him.

Kung’s blood has oozed over the grubby linoleum floor. The transformed man shudders as he laps it up with a long, pink tongue. The drug of the woman’s blood has hit his own bloodstream now. He feels the delicious glow inside him while his head spins in ecstasy.

He can hold no more glorious blood in his distended belly. He stands on his hind legs and shakes himself. Droplets of blood and gobbets of flesh spatter the rows of bottles.

With a gory paw, the transformed man reaches out and removes the bottle of Glendronach. Tucking it under a foreleg, he moves on shaky legs toward the back door.

A part of him knows that, once the buzz wears off and he reverts, the loathing and disgust will be numbed by its sweet drafts.

Until the next time the craving hits.

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“Craving” appears here for the first time and is Copyright © 2005 Scott Fazekas.

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 13th, 2005 at 11:24 am and is filed under Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.