How Much Cake is One Soul Worth?

Quick note before we start: this should work as a stand alone story, or you can read it as part of a series. Here are the other instalments, in order:

A Cock About to Cro-

Cat and Mouse

Just Desserts

Pound of Soul

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I slept cocooned in my own softness, and woke torn apart by hunger. I'm always hungriest after a kill, my senses heightened. The dreamscape is often a reverse of the physical world, so whatever satiation I enjoy there, taut belly rounding, smeared with blood... disappears when I'm back in my body, feet planted firm on the earth. My big belly sags hollow, innocent skin unsplattered.

The gnawing in my gut wakes me long before my alarm. I gobble the first slice of cake in gulps like half-starved little Charlie Bucket, barely chewing. The second, I eat slower, savouring it while the bacon cooks, and the porridge simmers.

I keep munching while walking to the bus, and while riding it, ignoring the glances. Toast, fruit, crisps, milk, nuts, chocolate...

I nibble two protein bars at my desk with an apologetic smile to my desk-neighbour, Lisa. "Missed breakfast."

Her expression stays static a moment too long. She says only "Mhm," and changes the subject.

I suck down a huge travel mug of coffee hoping the caffeine will suppress my appetite for a while, and when that's gone I start on the gum, thinking wistfully of Violet Beauregarde.

Maybe the better the feast there, the emptier I am here. There, his soul is eaten, but here it's surely mine that's in tatters. Maybe that's what makes me so hungry. My body senses the lack, tries to fill the gap. How much cake is one soul worth?

Unable to hold out any longer, I wash out my travel mug and fill it with thick milkshake, and then, furtive, something more substantial.

Back at my desk, Lisa draws an accusing sniff. "Is that... soup?"

"Sorry. Trying to head off a cold."

Lisa turned away, barely hiding her sneer. "We'll all get that, now, then, thanks."

Palming a boiled sweet, I still my grinding teeth, and banish the crimson pictures in my mind. Unthinkable. Two employees here dying would raise suspicions.

I could ignore my all-consuming hunger, but that's dangerous. I'd lose control in the dreamscape, and be more famished than ever after.

Midmorning brought a pleasant distraction. The police arrived just as I opened the packet of dried apple slices.

Showtime.

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Word count, excluding notes: 366

Submitted on: 20th January 00:timeAM

*Quick Author's Note (reprise)*

Thank you so much for reading! Your thoughtful engagement is very much valued. Please leave a comment so I can reciprocate the read. If you enjoyed it, the best compliment you can give is to share it, or read another.

The story behind the story: I am probably bending the definition of micro fiction to breaking point here, but Moira is so much fun to write.

I'm writing a story every day this year. This one makes a 20 day streak. You can find all of them in my Index post, which I'll link to below. It's also pinned to the top of my profile.

If you're joining me on this "story every day" madne adventure, please leave a link in the comments. Whether you're on a creative bent, like me, and writing mostly microfiction/stories, or whether you have your own, self-imposed criteria, I'd love to see what you come up with for today. I'll try to come back and edit this to link to your piece at the bottom.