"Mother, oh mother, tell me what shall I do?"
Mother says nothing.
"Mother, this hunger that gnaws at my insides only grows; tell me what should I eat to satiate this hunger?"
Mother says nothing.
"Mother, this hunger only grows and I, your son, I suffer."
Mother still says nothing.
So Gregory lays awake in his room, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep with the hunger growing inside him. It hurts so much that he wants to cry. He has thought about suicide, but no, he does not have the courage to do it.
Besides, mother would not like that.
"Mother, oh Mother, why did you bring me on this earth, only to give me this hunger forevermore."
He gets up from his bed and heads for the fridge. The light illuminates the dark room in a deep yellow sickened glow. The fridge is full. Breads, butter, fruits, sardine cans, jams, meat of three kinds, vegetables and then some beer (chilled to the bottom of the bottle).
Gregory stares at everything lying in the fridge. He grimaces in frustration and slams the door back, enveloping the room in darkness once more. He looks at the kitchen cabinet, a stray shaft of moonlight which made its way into the room shines on the handle of the knife lying on the board.
Gregory smiles as he picks up the knife.
Outside, the evening dissolves into the night, a steady chill grows in the air and Gregory steps out of his house, his big knife concealed well under his big coat. He prowls the streets looking for a prey and then he sees her. The girl all dressed in leather, a Goth. With pink highlights in her hair more prominent than her natural black, her face painted white with powder and her eyes, oh her eyes, like a gazelle with oceans of infinity between them.
Gregory wanted her to things for him. He followed her to the dark alleyway and pushed her into the darkness, the friend of that girl ran away on the first smell of trouble.
"Mister, please don't kill me," she begged, 'I'll do anything you say."
"Anything?" growled Gregory
"Please don't hurt me…" she started to sob in little sobs that made her chest rise and fall with every jerk.
"Will you do anything for me?"
"YES! I will!" she screamed, "What do you want?"
He told her.
Back in his room, they laughed as they made peanut butter sandwiches together.
"I told you Sam that it's a bitch to make sandwiches with one hand."
"Really! But still, you could have asked me nicely."
"Oh come on, who would come with a one handed man to make him a peanut butter sandwich."
Yeah, unless the man is holding a knife," she laughs, "You live all alone in this place?"
"No, my mother lives upstairs."
"Why doesn't she make you something to eat?"
"She's been dead for 30 years."