P I C A
P I C A
P I C A
Location: Calder City
Set The Table
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People who have lived through famine and regional starvation often share, after-the-fact, that their heads were occupied solely with thoughts of food. All other musings were pushed aside; famine, in its fundamental hunger, consumed your mind. People walk dazed, as if in a dream, slow and plodding. Eyes turn and swivel and sweep across everything but don't see anything - what they are searching for is not there. Once the crops ran out, animals were the first to go; neighbours would give away their pets, unable to do what had to be done themselves, trading a cherished cat for a beloved dog, both families choosing to believe that the other was perhaps merciful enough to release the creature rather than butcher it, neither admitting the truth that laid behind feverish eyes and salivating mouths - so easily recognised as it was, splayed across their own faces.
After the animals was where desperation truly dwelled. Grass was fair game; torn-up handfuls of dry and yellowed sod. Clods of dirt and earth, when you'd scrape in the mud for seedlings. You'd suck on pebbles, too, and might even try swallowing them - you'd regret it the other end, if your system was still even capable of passing waste, but having something with tangible mass in your stomach could almost feel worth it. You'd fill your mouth with splinters gnawing on wooden furniture, if you hadn't already burnt it all fuelling a fire only barely keeping your dying body warm. You might even start looking at your family differently; and when they would see that look in your eyes, and you in theirs, you'd wander off into the distance to die alone, curled into a ball as your organs shut down one by one. But you'd never stop feeling hungry.
Hunger: the hole in your belly that became the hole in your psyche, humanity draining out and something darker, baser, rushing in to plug the gap.
Lance was hungry, but that wasn't new. He was sat on cold concrete leaning against the brick wall of some poorly-maintained apartment block, a small flock of amused bystanders forming a semi-circle around him. On top of a harriedly-constructed table consisting of a plywood board balanced atop a cinderblock, both pilfered from a construction site that had long since had its budget re-allocated before chance of completion, was a growing pile of...things. Assorted bric-a-brac, including bricks and braces; it had begun with a sign saying
'ＷＩＬＬ ＥＡＴ ＡＮＹＴＨＩＮＧ ＦＯＲ ＄＄＄'
and someone questioning it, only to be answered with Lance scooping a discarded crisp packet that was lazily drifting pass in the late-morning breeze and putting the whole thing in his mouth, chewing and swallowing and opening his maw to prove it was empty and that he had, in fact, eaten it. The guy, curious, gave him a dollar to do it again, and he did, savouring the faint traces of flavouring, a thin film over the bitter plastic-and-ink base taste, and then he'd been approached by a couple teens who'd been watching from across the street.
The teens had slipped him a good old Honest Abe with one hand and offered a tennis ball they'd been tossing back and forth with the other. Lance bit into it like an apple, disliking the fuzzy texture on his tongue and the way tiny fibres got stuck between his teeth, but finding the way his canines sank and sliced into the rubber beneath quite satisfying. When he finished the whole ball and grinned, the bits of neon-green fuzz caught in his smile elicited a laugh, and then the show really started. Right now he was polishing off a brick, likening the hard crunch of the bite to a particularly large and dry pretzel. The flavour was pleasantly earthy, all kinds of ages coming through the clay, but it left a decidedly gritty feeling in the mouth - he'd given a couple bills to the most nervous-looking teen and sent him for a bottle of water from the nearby deli. The kid came back with the drink, and also a shard of glass - testing, prodding, trying to win some clout in front of his friends. Lance got his money first, then bit down on it like breaking off a piece of hard candy. You could chew forever on glass, and if you really rolled it around your tongue you might even pick up the faint sea-salt hints of the sand it came from, but mostly glass just didn't really taste of anything. You could smear anything on its surface for flavour and not worry about clashing with the undertones - Lance compared it to chicken in that way.
None of it filled the hole, obviously. Perhaps a micro-second of respite as he swallowed, but as soon as it hit the belly the hunger returned. He'd live, of course - his body would pull whatever it needed from what he fed it to keep him alive, almost at normal function, too - but he'd still be hungry. Another buck came with a palm of loose bolts; Lance sucked on these like a caramel, having come to be strangely fond of the metallic tang of rust, and then broke them down between his molars and swallowed the lot. In front of him now were foam packing peanuts (melted in the mouth like candyfloss, tasted of starch), a torn piece of flag (technically treasonous but cloth was fibrous and good roughage), a broken bit of traffic cone (the plastic was great to gnaw on if you were teething but they were often bitter with a coat of exhaust fumes), and a street sign stripped from its pole (the paint and steel mixed together into an oddly umami flavouring that paired well with coffee, and the thin metal was a pleasure to bite into). He'd pocketed at least $30 by now, which he would probably spend on a new toothbrush and an actual lunch of actual food from a local diner, before he returned to panhandling while the sun was still up. When it would begin to dip he'd seek shelter; a street refuge preferably, provided he had the necessary cash. If he didn't, he'd have to buck up and return to St. Dymphna's. The recent evenings had been cold and wet and Lance wanted a break from sleeping rough, loathe though he was to admit it, and he'd just have to try and squirrel himself away in a corner, avoiding prying eyes and the questions and concerns of people who meant well but he simply didn't want to involve himself with to save them the risk. Prevention was better than cure.
The pile ended, but one of the teens announced he had a final challenge, and there was a stone-cold-twenty in it for Lance if he really had the stomach he said he did. Considering the banquet he'd just devoured, Lance wasn't really sure how anything could be in question anymore, but twenty dollars was twenty dollars. He said sure, and the boy disappeared, the small gang now the only audience left, and they made awkward, nosy small-talk with Lance as they waited; Lance either lied or stone-walled when they asked something he didn't want to answer, and despite their adolescent street-forged bravado they retained enough manners not to push. It didn't matter, anyway; the ringleader soon reappeared, and slapped something down atop Lance's board with a wet splat. Lance's face darkened when he saw what had been delivered.
The carcass of a cat oozed coagulated blood into the plywood, flies buzzing about where their meal had been interrupted. Maggots writhed in the rotting flesh, and the putrid smell of the corpse made them all bring their hands to their noses and take a few steps back, wafting the air away from their faces. The ringleader wore a cunty grin on his face, seemingly amused at his own daring. It was deliberately revolting, clarifying immediately into sharp relief what Lance was to these children: not a down-on-his-luck Gray, nor a comrade-in-arms seeking survival on the streets of Calder. He was a sideshow, circus entertainment, a freak to be gawked at and poked with sticks. Lesser. Sub-human. Not fit for compassion or empathy.
The board and the cadaver upon it skidded off along the pavement as Lance threw it violently away, rising to his feet with such vigour and a throaty growl accompanying his movements that for a moment they were all frozen in fear, suddenly keenly aware their erstwhile leader had pushed too far, stepped over the edge they'd all so carefully danced along for weeks prior. In that instant, every member of that group lost what modicum of respect they held for each other, and this incident would be the inciting catalyst to a breakdown of their tenuous friendship entirely - but for now, they were broken from their stupor as Lance took another step toward them, and immediately turned tail and fled, youthful speed on their side and Lance's own shaking rage inhibiting a proper pursuit.
He let them go. He collected the corpse, returning it to the uncovered patch of earth in the abandoned worksite and affording it as dignified a burial as he could manage, sucking soil from beneath his fingernails as he walked away after marking the grave with a ring of pebbles and a quick-gesture cross over himself in lieu of prayer or elegy. He went for a lunch of cola and omelette, opting for a follow-up of coffee when rain started to patter against the diner window, and he watched the grey clouds march overhead, and he thought of the cat, and he was still hungry.
After the animals was where desperation truly dwelled. Grass was fair game; torn-up handfuls of dry and yellowed sod. Clods of dirt and earth, when you'd scrape in the mud for seedlings. You'd suck on pebbles, too, and might even try swallowing them - you'd regret it the other end, if your system was still even capable of passing waste, but having something with tangible mass in your stomach could almost feel worth it. You'd fill your mouth with splinters gnawing on wooden furniture, if you hadn't already burnt it all fuelling a fire only barely keeping your dying body warm. You might even start looking at your family differently; and when they would see that look in your eyes, and you in theirs, you'd wander off into the distance to die alone, curled into a ball as your organs shut down one by one. But you'd never stop feeling hungry.
Hunger: the hole in your belly that became the hole in your psyche, humanity draining out and something darker, baser, rushing in to plug the gap.
-
Lance was hungry, but that wasn't new. He was sat on cold concrete leaning against the brick wall of some poorly-maintained apartment block, a small flock of amused bystanders forming a semi-circle around him. On top of a harriedly-constructed table consisting of a plywood board balanced atop a cinderblock, both pilfered from a construction site that had long since had its budget re-allocated before chance of completion, was a growing pile of...things. Assorted bric-a-brac, including bricks and braces; it had begun with a sign saying
'ＷＩＬＬ ＥＡＴ ＡＮＹＴＨＩＮＧ ＦＯＲ ＄＄＄'
and someone questioning it, only to be answered with Lance scooping a discarded crisp packet that was lazily drifting pass in the late-morning breeze and putting the whole thing in his mouth, chewing and swallowing and opening his maw to prove it was empty and that he had, in fact, eaten it. The guy, curious, gave him a dollar to do it again, and he did, savouring the faint traces of flavouring, a thin film over the bitter plastic-and-ink base taste, and then he'd been approached by a couple teens who'd been watching from across the street.
The teens had slipped him a good old Honest Abe with one hand and offered a tennis ball they'd been tossing back and forth with the other. Lance bit into it like an apple, disliking the fuzzy texture on his tongue and the way tiny fibres got stuck between his teeth, but finding the way his canines sank and sliced into the rubber beneath quite satisfying. When he finished the whole ball and grinned, the bits of neon-green fuzz caught in his smile elicited a laugh, and then the show really started. Right now he was polishing off a brick, likening the hard crunch of the bite to a particularly large and dry pretzel. The flavour was pleasantly earthy, all kinds of ages coming through the clay, but it left a decidedly gritty feeling in the mouth - he'd given a couple bills to the most nervous-looking teen and sent him for a bottle of water from the nearby deli. The kid came back with the drink, and also a shard of glass - testing, prodding, trying to win some clout in front of his friends. Lance got his money first, then bit down on it like breaking off a piece of hard candy. You could chew forever on glass, and if you really rolled it around your tongue you might even pick up the faint sea-salt hints of the sand it came from, but mostly glass just didn't really taste of anything. You could smear anything on its surface for flavour and not worry about clashing with the undertones - Lance compared it to chicken in that way.
None of it filled the hole, obviously. Perhaps a micro-second of respite as he swallowed, but as soon as it hit the belly the hunger returned. He'd live, of course - his body would pull whatever it needed from what he fed it to keep him alive, almost at normal function, too - but he'd still be hungry. Another buck came with a palm of loose bolts; Lance sucked on these like a caramel, having come to be strangely fond of the metallic tang of rust, and then broke them down between his molars and swallowed the lot. In front of him now were foam packing peanuts (melted in the mouth like candyfloss, tasted of starch), a torn piece of flag (technically treasonous but cloth was fibrous and good roughage), a broken bit of traffic cone (the plastic was great to gnaw on if you were teething but they were often bitter with a coat of exhaust fumes), and a street sign stripped from its pole (the paint and steel mixed together into an oddly umami flavouring that paired well with coffee, and the thin metal was a pleasure to bite into). He'd pocketed at least $30 by now, which he would probably spend on a new toothbrush and an actual lunch of actual food from a local diner, before he returned to panhandling while the sun was still up. When it would begin to dip he'd seek shelter; a street refuge preferably, provided he had the necessary cash. If he didn't, he'd have to buck up and return to St. Dymphna's. The recent evenings had been cold and wet and Lance wanted a break from sleeping rough, loathe though he was to admit it, and he'd just have to try and squirrel himself away in a corner, avoiding prying eyes and the questions and concerns of people who meant well but he simply didn't want to involve himself with to save them the risk. Prevention was better than cure.
The pile ended, but one of the teens announced he had a final challenge, and there was a stone-cold-twenty in it for Lance if he really had the stomach he said he did. Considering the banquet he'd just devoured, Lance wasn't really sure how anything could be in question anymore, but twenty dollars was twenty dollars. He said sure, and the boy disappeared, the small gang now the only audience left, and they made awkward, nosy small-talk with Lance as they waited; Lance either lied or stone-walled when they asked something he didn't want to answer, and despite their adolescent street-forged bravado they retained enough manners not to push. It didn't matter, anyway; the ringleader soon reappeared, and slapped something down atop Lance's board with a wet splat. Lance's face darkened when he saw what had been delivered.
The carcass of a cat oozed coagulated blood into the plywood, flies buzzing about where their meal had been interrupted. Maggots writhed in the rotting flesh, and the putrid smell of the corpse made them all bring their hands to their noses and take a few steps back, wafting the air away from their faces. The ringleader wore a cunty grin on his face, seemingly amused at his own daring. It was deliberately revolting, clarifying immediately into sharp relief what Lance was to these children: not a down-on-his-luck Gray, nor a comrade-in-arms seeking survival on the streets of Calder. He was a sideshow, circus entertainment, a freak to be gawked at and poked with sticks. Lesser. Sub-human. Not fit for compassion or empathy.
The board and the cadaver upon it skidded off along the pavement as Lance threw it violently away, rising to his feet with such vigour and a throaty growl accompanying his movements that for a moment they were all frozen in fear, suddenly keenly aware their erstwhile leader had pushed too far, stepped over the edge they'd all so carefully danced along for weeks prior. In that instant, every member of that group lost what modicum of respect they held for each other, and this incident would be the inciting catalyst to a breakdown of their tenuous friendship entirely - but for now, they were broken from their stupor as Lance took another step toward them, and immediately turned tail and fled, youthful speed on their side and Lance's own shaking rage inhibiting a proper pursuit.
He let them go. He collected the corpse, returning it to the uncovered patch of earth in the abandoned worksite and affording it as dignified a burial as he could manage, sucking soil from beneath his fingernails as he walked away after marking the grave with a ring of pebbles and a quick-gesture cross over himself in lieu of prayer or elegy. He went for a lunch of cola and omelette, opting for a follow-up of coffee when rain started to patter against the diner window, and he watched the grey clouds march overhead, and he thought of the cat, and he was still hungry.
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