Chapter 48: Watching a Witch Burn

Jared tried to say something, but I remained huddled in the corner, my back to him, a stubborn, silent wall of misery. Defeated, he did as I asked, intending to finish his small portion quickly so he could give the rest to me. The moment the hot, savory stew touched his lips, his eyes went wide. I could hear his sharp intake of breath. From the first day he could remember, from a lifetime of stale crusts and scraps, he had never, ever tasted anything so delicious. It was so good it almost brought tears to his eyes, and he couldn't stop eating, shoveling the food in with a quiet reverence. It was a simple, haphazard stew, made with incomplete ingredients, but I knew the theory of cooking. Compared to MacDuff’s crew, who couldn’t afford seasonings and whose only culinary skill was tossing stolen, leftover food onto a fire until it was blackened, I was a master chef.

As Jared ate, the rich, savory aroma wafted over to me, and it was torture. It was a physical assault on my senses. I felt the monstrous hunger stirring again in the pit of my stomach, a cold, coiling thing waking from its slumber. My control was slipping. In a moment of desperate, quick-thinking, I grabbed the cold, stale food he had brought back yesterday. Though I had devoured most of it, there was still enough for a normal person's meal. I seized a piece of the rock-hard bread and began to chew, the sheer, painful effort of it a welcome distraction from the siren call of the stew.

“Parula, don’t eat that,” Jared said, his voice full of concern. “Come eat this, it’s delicious. You made it yourself.”

 “Mmmph! Leave me be! Just eat!” I mumbled through a mouthful of stale bread. I had discovered that the cold, hard food was a useful tool. Because it was so tough, I was forced to eat slowly, which allowed me to keep a tenuous, fraying grip on my sanity. And by focusing on the act of chewing, of grinding the tasteless brick into a paste, I could avoid looking at the steaming, fragrant stew. I was fighting a war against my own appetite.

But even a day's worth of food wasn't enough for the beast inside me. I devoured the last of it in moments. Jared, having finished his small portion, offered me the pot.

 “I’m full,” he lied, his face a mask of earnest concern. “It’s your turn, Parula.” I looked inside. The scoundrel. The kind-hearted, damned fool. He had eaten only half of the carrots and potatoes and had barely touched the sausage, leaving most of the precious, life-giving meat for me. I couldn’t stop myself. The moment he handed me the pot, the beast surged forward, and I was lost. I tilted the pot back and, using a stick as a crude spoon, scraped every last drop of the stew and meat into my mouth, a frantic, desperate act of consumption.

When everything edible had been devoured, the ravenous hunger finally began to recede, leaving me in that now-familiar state of lucid, post-frenzy calm. I finally understood. This appetite, this hunger, it wasn't about filling my stomach. It was just a simple, terrifying, and uncontrollable need to consume. It was a void that could not be filled.

“You don’t have to leave the meat for me next time,” I said sullenly, my voice flat and dead. “It all tastes the same to me.” I turned away from him, pulled the blanket over my head, and curled into a tight ball, not even bothering to take off my cloak. Jared hesitated for a moment, then slipped under the covers and wrapped his arms around me. He could sense my despair, a despair that went far beyond simple hunger, but he didn't know how to comfort me with words. So, he offered the simple, innocent comfort of a warm, protective embrace. And I was filled with despair. More than the physical hardship, more than the filth of our surroundings, it was this internal torment that was breaking me. I had no way to earn a living. I couldn’t even cook a simple meal without battling a monstrous hunger. I couldn’t sleep without being tormented by whispers and nightmares. I was useless, a parasite, feeding on the kindness and the crimes of a boy I just had met. Without Jared, I wouldn’t survive a single day. With these thoughts churning in my mind, a tangled mess of guilt and self-loathing, I finally fell asleep. Held by Jared, my sleep was deep and dreamless.

The next morning, I awoke to find that he had already returned from an early morning venture. A large sack of fresh bread lay beside me. And Jared… he was sitting cross-legged, a shaft of dusty morning light illuminating him. He was using the ornate dagger to carefully peel one of the bruised apples we had bought yesterday. The juxtaposition was so surreal it made my head spin. 

“Here,” he said, offering me a slice. “Eat up. When you’re done, I’ll take you to see something interesting.”

 “Interesting? What is it?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

 “They’re burning a witch in the public square today,” he said, his eyes shining with a cheerful, boyish excitement, as if he were talking about a trip to the circus. “I’ll take you to see the execution.”