I still remember.
Well—
Not everything.
Not in order.
Not like a film I can rewind.

But in flashes.
In smells.
In the places my mind drifts when I start to lose focus.

I remember the blood.
Not the colour of it, but the heat — the way it steamed in the cold air.
The way it clung to my skin, my clothes, thick and tacky, as if not a drop wanted to be left behind.

I remember the sounds.
Snapping.
Screaming.
The wet, visceral choking that refused to stop.

But most of all, I remember how it felt.
That’s the part I never say out loud.

They say it wasn’t our fault.
That we were sick. Infected.
That the hunger wasn’t ours, but something that wore us like a parasite:
clawing at our flesh from the inside, driving us mad as we tore through the world.

And maybe that’s true.

But sometimes…

What if it wasn’t just the sickness?
What if it was always a part of me?
A part of us?

What if it wasn’t an infection, but instinct?
Primal. Ancient.
Fight or flight turned feral: a shedding of inhibition, of conscience, of control.

What if we weren’t sick?
What if we were free?

No.
I shouldn’t think like that.
That’s what they say, isn’t it? That’s why they watch us so closely.

The rush. The power. The reward.
It’s indulgence, and indulgence becomes action.
I know what happens when you give in.
When you slip.
When you’re deemed a threat.

So I bury it.

I do as I’m told.
I nod. I smile.
I take my pills, one by one.
I sit in the circle, share my story,
and bark the mantra like a loyal dog:

I am steady.
I am clean.
I am free.

The words feel soft in my mouth.
Worn smooth by repetition.
Almost gentle.
Almost like I could believe them.

And yet, every night when I close my eyes, something stirs.
It doesn’t speak — at least not in words — but it pulls.
Just beneath the skin.
A low hum I can’t shake.
Like tension in a muscle that never unclenches.

Not sharp.
Not cruel.
Just… known.

Is this part of the process?
The sleeplessness. The confusion.
Maybe it’s normal. Maybe I’m just adjusting.
Or maybe I’m just waiting.

Waiting for it to surface.
Waiting to lose control.
Waiting to prove them right.

The hunger doesn’t speak in words.
It remembers.