"Eat this," she says.
I accept the fruit, the smooth red skin of it resting uneasily against my palm. I could drop it. I could walk away. I could forget.
"Don't be shy."
She hands me a knife with a wooden handle. The blade is too long, I think. The metal is not meant to be so dark. Is that blood crusted at the tip?
I stand, arms outstretched, a pomegranate in my left hand and a dagger in my right. My wings droop. My skin is pale in this dark place, an outlier.
Even the colors don't want me here.
She makes no further commands. She leans against a tree trunk, her arms crossed beneath her exposed breasts. She waits.
My physical eyes close. My third eye opens, tingling in the center of my forehead.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I slice into the pomegranate, the skin resisting. But I force my two hands toward each other, and the fruit's membranes give way with a gush of red fluid that coats my palms and trickles down my arm.
I pause, horrified at the color staining my skin. Surely there's a way to avoid this mess?
Her laugh draws my gaze to her. She shakes her head, her long black hair brushing her shoulders with soft shushes.
"You are hungry. Why not eat?"
A trickle of juice drips from my elbow and spatters my upper thigh.
I look to her again.
Her eyes roll, impatient.
Slowly, fingers shaking, I bring the knife to my lips.
She arches a single manicured eyebrow.
I press my tongue to the cold metal. The juice is sweet, but it cannot cancel out the tang of iron. Surprisingly, the combination is perfectly pleasant.
I let my eyes drift shut as I draw my tongue up the blade, feeling the ridges of the dagger underneath my tongue. There is a flash of pain as I reach the tip, and copper mingles with juice and iron.
I lick my lips afterward, and swallow.
She's right - I am hungry. Not just hungry - starving.
I drop the knife, and it sheathes itself in the blood darkened soil.
I do not care - I don't need it.
With both hands, I bring the pomegranate to my face, digging it open with my nails, letting the juice run down my arms, splatter my legs, spray on my breasts. I expose the ruby-colored seeds, nestled in gristle. They feel like smooth pebbles on my lips. I lick, bite, nibble, suck, burying my cheeks in seeds and skin. the seeds taste sweet, yes, but I can't bring myself to savor the flavor. I spit out the white membranes as they get in my way, gulping down seeds with small crunches and large gusto.
She begins to speak as I eat, abandoning her post by the tree to circle me, running her claws lightly over my shoulders, purring in my ears.
"If you are hungry, you must eat. If you are curious, you must experience. If you wish to understand something, to consume it, sometimes you must destroy it."
She pauses and I use the broad of my tongue to push a seed loose.
"It's okay to be a monster."
I am not sure I agree, but I am hungry, so I eat.
"If you want something, take it. Make mistakes. Make enemies. Eat them too. Wear your teeth."
She moves back in front of me and smiles. Her teeth are pointed, blood-stained ivory glinting in the scarce moonlight that filters through the tree's canopy.
I run my tongue along my lips to capture some of the juice that's coating my chin. They catch on my own teeth with a long scrape of pain. I swallow the blood. Right - I remember now.
My wings grow warm against my back, the flames brightening with my memories.
She nods in approval, reaching forward and swiping a clawed finger down my arm. She cleans off the juice with her tongue.
"Monsters are gorgeous creatures," she assures me. "We are wise because we have destroyed so much and cared so little for who would preserve it. Monsters break boxes, traditions, and hearts."
She moves in closer to me, close enough I can feel the heat radiating off her hips. She smiles at me. My lips, still coated with blood and juice, part. My breath grows shallow. She plucks one of the few remaining seeds from its nest and presses it between my sharp teeth. I am hungry, so I eat.
She smirks her approval as I swallow, wrapping my lips around her finger and sucking.
I am vaguely disappointed when she draws her hand away.
"You are covered in blood," she observes. "There will always be blood for you. Do not regret it - do not feel guilty. Monsters have their own beauty, and it is at its best in red."
I drop the mangled pomegranate skin when she backs away, letting it fall around the knife's hilt, dismembered and mauled in my frenzied quest to sate my hunger - an unavoidable casualty.
I am soaked in red. It stains my fingers, darker in the lines of my palms, outlining my silver moon and star ring. It is underneath my nails, gathered in the creases of my elbows. There are splatters on my breasts, dribbles on my navel. I stretch my wings, touching them together over my head and making sparks fly into the night sky to be swallowed by the tree's canopy.
My pale skin no longer looks out of place.
I have been here before I realize. The juice was not juice, then, but blood. The pomegranate was someone's heart. I tore their ribs apart, nestled my mouth into the cavity beneath their sternum and listened to them scream as I buried my teeth in their intestines and devoured them. I was alive with fire and dripping blood and I learned how sweet a lover's heart could be.
Now I lean and pluck the knife from the earth. The blade is the perfect length, and the hilt seems to mold to my hands. The weight of it feels like an extension of my self, finally back in place.
If she were more excitable, she would bounce up and down and clap her hands together in excitement. Instead, she stretches sinuously, her lips curved to the side.
"There you are," she purrs. "If you are hungry, you should eat."
