Page 58 of So Thirsty

“I didn’t mean to,” she says, her eyes still glass. “I couldn’t help it. I needed it. I thought I would die. I would die without it.”

“It’s okay. It’s just a rabbit,” I say.

“It was so disgusting,” she says, retching. “It tasted awful. Rancid. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Her eyes finally find mine, and there’s something feral in them that turns my stomach. She shoots up, clutching my arm, sinking her nails in.

“I couldn’t help it,” she says. “I was thirsty. I’m still thirsty. Still so thirsty.”

19

N aomi collapses back into the snow, wheezing. I shift to my knees, staring at the rabbit carcass, at the tiny pile of innards beside it.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve, then cries out, “I ruined my favorite jacket.”

She’s serious about the jacket. She’s had it since high school. She loves that thing.

“You can get it dry-cleaned,” I say.

“It’s your birthday. I ruined your birthday.”

“Honestly, I was dreading my birthday. I was freaking out about getting older,” I say. “Now it doesn’t seem so bad. I’d be so lucky to grow old.”

She doesn’t have anything to say to that. She gets on all fours and takes a shallow breath.

“You need help getting up?” I ask her.

Somewhere behind me, a twig snaps.

Her eyes dart over my shoulder, and she’s on her feet.

“What?” I ask, turning around just in time to see someone slip behind a tree, too slow to hide, and too smelly to be discreet. Whoever it is, they reek of weed.

I remember the second set of footprints.

I turn back to Naomi. She’s covered in blood. There’s a dead animal between us, in plain sight. What a scene to happen upon. I don’t blame the person for hiding.

Do we run? Hope they didn’t get a good enough look at us? Is it illegal to eat live rabbits in the woods? Would we get in trouble? Kicked out of our cottage? Reported to the police or to the wildlife authorities? I don’t know. I don’t know.

Naomi’s expression alerts me to the fact that I’m asking the wrong questions, worrying about the wrong things.

She’s past me; she’s at the tree; she’s pulling the person out.

It’s the porter. Michael. No, Matthew. He wears his dorky uniform under a North Face fleece. Naomi’s got him pinned to the tree, with her hand clamped over his mouth. She bounces his head off the trunk, and it hits with a loud crack. He’s out.

“Naomi! Stop!”

I know she won’t. Naomi always gets what she wants. She doesn’t ask for permission or consider the consequences. She reaches out and takes it.

I watch her eyes go wild again—chillingly savage. I watch her jaw open wide, too wide. I watch her push up the boy’s sleeve and bite down on his wrist.

I clench my jaw tight, so tight that I might grind my teeth to dust.

I watch her drink. I watch the ferocity fade, replaced with satisfaction.

I watch his other arm hang limp. Available.

I know I won’t. Because I don’t let myself get what I want. Because I’d rather starve than feast. Because I’m scared. I’m too scared.