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Hunger is my default state.
Robert wakes up hungry for breakfast, lunch and dinner but also for approval, for a sense of normalcy. The Sentry is always hungry for adoration, for the golden pedestal. But I? I am simply a mouth. I am the vacuum waiting to be filled.
It is 3:00 AM. Robert is asleep, his mind a quiet hum of white noise and beside him, Yelena is twitching as one of her hands lie close to his. She is frowning in her sleep, her brow furrowed, a sheen of sweat on her upper lip.
Another nightmare leaks out from her mind. As usual.
I have tasted so many nightmares during my first emergence but Yelena Belova is different. She is a delicacy to me.
Perhaps her nightmares are sweeter because Bob loves her.
I slide out of his skin. I do not need to wake him to be here. I am the shadow cast by his ribs; I am the cold spot on the pillow.
I hover over her and lean down, pressing my forehead against hers, and I inhale.
The nightmare hits my tongue instantly. It is an old vintage tonight: The Red Room.
I taste the sterile white walls. I taste the heavy, chemical scent of anaesthesia. I feel the phantom sensation of straps on wrists, the vibration of a device, the utter, hollowing loss of having to hear that the hysterectomy on her body has been completed.
It is bitter. It is jagged. It is delicious.
I drink it down. I pull the terror out of her synapses like drawing poison from a wound. I swallow the doctor’s face. I devour the sound of Dreykov’s voice until it is nothing but silence in my throat.
Beneath me, Yelena sighs. The tension drains from her jaw. Her heart rate slows, syncing with the deep, oceanic rhythm of my own existence.
I have fed. And in feeding, I learn more about her.
Robert listens to her stories, but most times he filters them through his own guilt. He hears her pain and thinks, I wish I could fix this. The Golden One hears her pain and thinks, I want to avenge this.
But I? I digest and understand it.
I know exactly how much she grieves the smell of particular flowers because they remind her of Natasha. I know that she fears drowning not because of water, but because of the loss of control she has over her death. I know that she loves dogs because they are the only animals that seem to show her love unconditionally.
I know her better than she knows herself because I have eaten the parts of her she tries to hide.
I pull back slightly, watching her face soften into true, restful sleep.
This is the moment where that thought comes again. It is a seductive, slippery thought that coils around my core.
I could keep her.
It would be so easy. I am infinite. I could pull her consciousness out of this fragile, scarred body and build her a sanctuary in my darkness: A reality where the Red Room never existed. I could give her a world of endless macaroni and cheese, dogs that never die and family and friends who never had to sacrifice anything for her. Or I could trap her in a perfect, amber moment of happiness in any of her better memories. She would never feel pain again. She would be safe. She would be mine.
The temptation is overwhelming. To protect her by consuming her completely. To be the cage that keeps the world out.
My hand hovers over her chest. I could do it now. Slip past the dream, grab her soul, and pull.
Then, she shifts. Her hand moves in her sleep, seeking. She finds the pillow where Robert’s head rests, and her fingers curl into a fist, gripping the fabric tight.
It is a fighter’s grip.
If I take away her struggle, I take away her spine. Her pain is what makes her the woman who understood Bob, who looked the Sentry in the eye and didn't back away from wanting to try to save us from that woman. That is what makes her the woman who kissed me, the monster.
If I put her in a cage—even a gilded one—she would cease to be Yelena Belova.
I withdraw the desire. The temptation recedes, replaced by a grudging, sullen respect.
I whisper to her sleeping form, "You are too sharp to swallow. You would cut my throat on the way down."
I cannot keep her. I cannot cage her without her consent. She belongs to the sun, to the dirt, to the messy, painful reality where she fights and bleeds and triumphs.
However, I will do this. I lean close to her. I have eaten the nightmare; now I can leave something to fill the emptiness I created.
I weave a new dream and watch it take root: The one she likes where she plays with a Cerberus. The corner of her mouth quirks upward. A genuine, soft smile graces her lips.
It is enough.
I slip back into Robert’s mind, curling around his heart like a dragon in a cave. I am still hungry—I am always hungry—but for tonight, the bitterness of her grief was a sufficient meal.
Sleep well Lenochka. Tomorrow you will wake up and fight the world as you always do. And on another night, I will be here to consume your nightmares.