I didn’t realize how bad I had it until I was eating mouthfuls of sand.

“You are a pig. Consuming, absorbing, destroying.”

That’s what my grandfather whispered into my ear right before he died.

I backed away from him confused, surrounded by other family in the hospital room. I looked to my sister, Kate, who regarded me with tearful eyes and a dismissive shrug.

After some time in the room with everyone, her and I left to get food at the hospital Wendy’s. It was a comfort thing for us. Besides, the ordeal had made me quite hungry. As I sat there eating a burger, Kate asked me what he had whispered.

The odd nature of what he told me made me keep it from most of the family. I didn’t want to upset anyone. But when she asked me, I decided I could tell her straight up. She didn’t even believe me at first. After some convincing, I think she got creeped out by it.

As far as the two of us knew, our grandfather wouldn’t have had any reason to say something like that. It just didn’t make sense. She ravaged her burger and we sat in a concerned silence. I grabbed another order of fries to snack on as we went back to the room.

Over the next couple days, I started to notice changes in myself.

An extra spoonful of rice, another sandwich, a few more chips. I realized that I was eating more and more each day. I completely ran out of groceries in my apartment after just a few days, which was just not normal for me.

The thing is, I stopped ever feeling satiated. I didn’t even feel full after eating two whole meals back to back. It wasn’t long before I found myself nibbling at the edges of my fork after finishing my food.

Eventually, it became hard to focus at work because of it. A pit grew in my stomach and it consumed anything and everything that I ate, leaving me feeling empty always. A sharp pang in the bottom of my ribs permeated my thoughts.

I eyeballed one of my coworker’s prepped meals in the work fridge. My mouth was practically frothing. I gulped down his food in minutes. I was too hungry to feel guilty.

I was still hungry. My teeth bit down instinctively on the plastic spoon in my mouth, shattering it into a dozen sharp pieces. I chewed and swallowed until it was all gone. Only after finishing the spoon did I even realize what I had done. I had been in a haze.

I approached a mirror and looked at myself. My gums were bleeding.

What the hell is wrong with me?

As much as I was disgusted by myself, it didn’t stop me. From my count, over the next day or so, I ate: four more plastic spoons, three plastic forks, a paper plate, a series of brown napkins, a bottle cap, and I tore off a piece of my pillow in the middle of the night. I couldn’t stop myself.

The next morning I had a beach day scheduled with some friends I had committed to a week prior. I didn’t cancel because I hoped that it might take my mind off everything that had been happening recently. Once we were on the beach and settled in, I chose to stay mostly just sitting out on my towel, the pain in my stomach too strong for me to swim.

Then I smelled something. Meat. Strong.

The group of people to my right, about 15 feet away, were eating food. I looked over at them closely at the red chunks they ate with their bare hands. It was watermelon. It confused me. The scent of meat was overpowering; I wanted nothing more than to eat it all.

But where was it?

That’s when I came to a realization. I was smelling them. I looked over their bodies, their sweating, glistening skin, and my mouth watered. My toes curled and I bit my tongue. My stomach rumbled loudly. I needed to eat.

I dug my fingers into the sand and clenched my fist around some. I felt the coarseness and the warmth. I imagined salt. Without another thought, I raised the sand to my mouth and poured it in.

My mind was instantly hit with a wave of relief as the warm fluid permeated throughout my mouth. I chewed slowly, feeling the grittiness, the dryness, scraping my teeth and coating every surface. I grabbed another handful, this one bigger. I shoveled it into my mouth.

Then I swallowed.

The hot sand stuck to my throat and made it difficult to breathe. My throat spasmed as it struggled to force down the growing mounds of sand entering it. I continued to shovel more into my mouth. When I felt the first waves of sand landing in my stomach, the weight and warmth granted me immense satisfaction.

I stared at the people next to me as I ate. I imagined eating them.

I was only knocked out of my trance when one of my friends came running back to our stuff. I quickly stopped myself and wiped the sand from my face. That’s when I started to feel the effects. I was incredibly thirsty and barely able to speak.

I chugged a bottle of water in a second and left the beach then and there.

When I got to my apartment, I drank more water and shoveled all the food I had left into my body. Despite the rocks in my stomach, I felt no less hungry.

I debated what to do. I knew I couldn’t keep eating how I had been. I even fantasized about eating humans. After some thought, I came up with something.

I completely soaked a dishrag in rubbing alcohol before balling it up and shoving it into my mouth. I bit down hard. The taste and smell that entered my mouth, nose, and throat was incredibly nauseating and strong. It definitely lowered my appetite. I tied another rag around my face to hold the alcohol rag in my mouth. I must have looked insane. But it worked.

I spent the afternoon pacing around my apartment trying to hold down my hunger. My mind was racing.

You are a pig. Consuming, absorbing, destroying.

My grandfather’s words. I wasn’t the only one who knew about them.

Kate.

That evening at Wendy’s. That burger she ate. I told her those very same words. I decided that I should see if she was okay. She didn’t pick up when I called. Neither did either of my parents.

I decided to drive there to see her in person. I made it to my parent’s house, where she lived with them, in the early evening. I let myself in with the key under the doormat.

Entering the front room, I was greeted by an eerie silence. The lights were on but there were no people. Stepping into the living room, I found my first clue.

Blood. Splattered all over the carpet, being dragged across the floor and trailing away towards the kitchen.

Becoming more nervous with each step, I followed the trail. Upon entering the kitchen, the scent of copper struck my nose, even through the alcohol.

The blood formed a pool that was obscured by the island in the middle of the room. Just at the edge of view was a single foot, the rest of the body presumably behind the island too. I ran to the other side of the island.

The body wasn’t even really a body. The foot was attached to about half of a bare shin, roughly torn at the end. I could see a pink bone sticking out from the muscle, shattered and jagged.

There were no other intact body parts. I still don’t know who it was.

Within the pool of blood, alongside the foot, was a collection of torn chunks of unrecognizable flesh and bits of bone and tattered clothing. I fell to my knees and gagged, feeling coarse sand travel up my throat. I forcefully choked it back down.

I stood back up, blood dripping from my legs, and I found the trail of bare bloody footprints continuing into the next hall, towards Kate’s bedroom.

I hesitated with fear as my hand rested on the doorknob. I bit down on the alcohol, feeling some seep into my throat, and I twisted the knob.

It was locked. I forcefully twisted it again and again. As adrenaline began to course through me, I backed up and slammed my shoulder into the door. It hardly budged. I tried again. After several minutes of slamming and kicking at the door, the wood finally cracked and bowed in at the lock. With a final push of my bodyweight, the door crashed in, and I fell to the ground in Kate’s room.

It was in an atrocious state. Everything in sight had been torn, ripped, smashed, bitten, or thrown. The room had been ransacked and destroyed. I stood and stepped further into the room. Kate was nowhere to be seen either on the blood-soaked carpet or the bed. Just trash and tattered bits of clothing. I turned around and finally set my eyes upon the open closet.

Kate was slumped over on the ground, leaning back against the hanging clothes. A pool of blood surrounded her. Her hand was gripped around something pink and spongy. Her jaw was loose, revealing a mess of blood and flesh in her mouth. I fell to the ground and grabbed her by the shoulders, causing her head to fall towards me.

Now able to see the top of her head, I found the cause of her state. A sizable portion of the top-back of her skull was removed, as if it had been forcefully pried open. The pink brainmatter underneath was shredded.

I crawled away in utter terror. Tears welled up in my eyes. The room faded and all I saw was her.

What has she done?

I got up and ran out of the room and then out of the house. I called the police but couldn’t speak into the phone due to the rag. I drove away immediately after. I’ve been hiding in my apartment for the past few hours since, writing this.

I’m not scared of being accused of any crimes. I’m hiding because even through what I saw, all the blood and tears, even through the alcohol rag, my stomach still rumbles.

My mouth waters. I can’t face people, lest they end up like the others. Despite everything, one thought powers over my mind.

I’m dying to eat.