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The beast hungers.
The beast always hungers.
Enid has learned to live with it.
It can be a peaceful thing, to host a beast’s heart.
A knowledge that whatever happens, she will always have more hunger to unleash.
She has found serenity in want. In the inevitability of insatiability.
And so Enid lives. She enjoys the warmth of the sun, she howls at the calling of the moon. She carries on, day after day. Night after night. She smells the flowers. She stalks the prey. She hunts.
And nothing ever changes.
The beast hurts.
The beast always hurts.
It hurts like an open wound.
It hurts like a promise.
It tears at her skin from inside. It scratches at her heart.
Enid doesn’t mind. What complaint can a cage make to its prisoner?
Enid smiles through it all. Hurt or not, the sun remains the same. And if some nights the moon calls louder, she pretends not to listen.
“Must you always do that?” Wednesday asks one day, annoyed, not looking up from her book.
They are at the library. Studying. Because Enid had insisted that, as roommates, they should spend some time together and had let Wednesday choose the activity.
She had chosen the library specifically because it was silent. So why was she talking?
“Do what?” Asks Enid.
“Smile.”
“Oh.” Enid’s smile falters, but she keeps it up. “Well, smiles are good, right?”
“I wouldn’t know, I don’t touch the stuff myself.” Wednesday says. “But I can’t imagine faking it so often can be pleasant for anyone.”
Oh, Enid doesn’t say this time.
“What makes you think I’m faking?”
Wednesday looks up from her book at her.
“It’s different.” She says.
“What is?”
“Your smile. The real one. It’s different.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Enid says, quicker than she should. “It’s always the same smile.”
She knows. She’s practiced it in front of a mirror many times.
“Not to me.” Wednesday says.
They don’t speak another word to each other for the rest of the day.
“Would you like me to murder them?” Wednesday offers. “Maiming and torturing are also on the table. ‘All of the above’ as well.”
Enid smiles. Wednesday’s head tilts slightly, barely noticeable, a gesture Enid has learned to interpret as an acknowledgment of a real smile (Wednesday hasn’t been wrong yet). She likes to pretend it’s Wednesday’s way to smile back at her.
“Thank you for the offer,” she says. “But it’s okay. I don’t mind.”
People know she won’t fight back. It makes her a target. They don’t know she only holds back for their sake.
“You’re lying.” Not an accusation, a mere statement of fact. More curiosity than anything else.
“Maybe,” She concedes. “but really, I’m not interested in retribution.”
It’s true. The beast always hungers, after all. Revenge won’t sate it. Nothing will.
Blood flows, and the beast remains the same.
Serenity in want.
Wednesday is always weird after their French class.
Well, Wednesday is always weird.
But she’s especially weird after French class.
Enid has asked about it before, has received nothing but denial and deadly glares.
And a cryptic mutter about how ‘it’s genetic, apparently’. She has no idea what it means.
Weirder-post-French Wednesday is usually slightly less hostile than classic-flavor-weird Wednesday, and so Enid usually takes the opportunity to push for some bonding activity.
This time, it’s walking through the woods.
It’s often walking through the woods, actually.
Wednesday must really like the woods.
Probably something about monsters lurking in the shadows.
“Why do you like it here so much?” Enid asks.
Wednesday doesn’t answer immediately.
“It’s the quiet.” She says eventually.
“There’s plenty of quiet back at the academy.” Enid points out.
“Not that quiet. Your quiet.” Wednesday says. “You’re more peaceful here. I- like it. When you’re peaceful.”
It lulls the beast, the song of the woods.
“How did you know?” She asks.
“How could I not?” Wednesday replies.
For just a moment, the beast sleeps.
And Enid hungers.