Starvation truly is no pleasant experience, Sylvea had heard a man on one of the televisions displayed behind glass in a department store say this when she was hurrying around town one day.

She hadn’t paid much attention to him at the time, more preoccupied with keeping her head down low with her eyes and ears open, intent on doing her best in evading any ill-meaning gangs of other street children waiting to ambush and rob her of even slightest valuables she can possibly have on her person. It’s always the same every time, she either loses the hard-earned keep that she spent hours digging around the slimy garbage of the city’s dumpsters for, or seemingly endless beatings that leave her feeling more dead than alive, inflicted upon her in angry, bludgeoning strikes, an apparent “punishment” for her supposed “incompetence”. A futile situation, a battle she could never win, a fight she would do everything in her power to avoid.

Yet, despite it all, if she were given the choice right this instant, curled up in her filthy cardboard box with a paper–thin, ragged blanket wrapped tightly around her shivering, much too skinny shoulders, desperately trying to ignore the pangs of agony as her stomach attempted to eat away at its own insides, begging her for even the most meager scraps of food to devour; Sylvea thought she would gladly have another go with the street children. At least their blows, as ruthless and violent as they were, would come to an end quickly, as long as she stays very, very still and silent. A pleading, terrified toy is interesting enough to play with, but a broken one offers no entertainment, after all.

How many days has it been since she’s last eaten? Five days? A week? Perhaps even more than that? She doesn’t really know anymore.

There wasn’t a specific starting point to when everything started going downhill, really. Even if nothing was ever truly okay, as her current state of life would never get any easier anyways, but Sylvea digresses. All she knew was that day by day, little by little, food was growing all the scarcer to come by. No matter how carefully she tries to time her foraging trips, waiting for the precise moment when the garbage cans would be heaping for her to rummage through them, she always ended up with much less than what would be enough to get her through every passing week. She is definitely not the most well-informed person when it comes to the going-ons of the city, yet whatever it is, people – the shops, the restaurants, the factories…they all were struggling, and things were not looking too bright. But she tries to be positive. She makes an enormous effort in telling herself to bide her time. Whatever modest amount of knowledge of biology residing in her mind came from the limited lessons the orphanage had cared enough to give the children inhabiting it; nevertheless, she knew that she could survive for an acceptable amount of time with just water alone, enough time for the adults to sort out their financial problems and for there to be more food she can find in the dumpsters. And so she drank from the fountain in the square, and forcefully shoved the hunger into the furthest corners of her mind. She has more pressing matters to worry about. 

But then there were suddenly guards surrounding the fountain too. For what reason, Sylvea does not know, but they do look a lot more intimidating than she would have liked. The fact that she directly witnessed them beat a beggar boy that had been reckless enough to get close to the structure to half-dead does not help in the slightest bit, either. The boy was so, so young, probably no older than eight or nine, and clearly desperate; she doubted he had even registered what was going on before tall, burly men lunged forward at him with their batons poised for a merciless assault. She couldn’t bear to linger long enough to watch what had become of the boy, having already slipped back into the shadows and making her way back to her box undetected, but she prayed to the gods who she had long lost her faith in, and wished that he was alright. 

However, with her best and only source of water gone, the trek up the already rocky hill of survival became decidedly more onerous. The starvation was already gnawing terribly quickly through her delicate constitution, and now the dehydration was rather perspicuously eager to join in. Sylvea had undoubtedly felt starvation before, having done so many times that the emptiness and the ceaseless ache had become a constant part of her life, as natural as breathing or blinking. The orphanage she was eternally proud of herself for escaping had never been that well-off in the first place; the prospects of three full meals a day seemed almost surreal. Her days at that dreaded place, and the experience that comes along with it, had served her current life well. She took it all in stride; the hunger, the thrashings, the filth, or just the entire more-than-a-little-uncomfortable living conditions in general. She assumed this time would be no different: she’s lived through worse, so a few days was nothing. 

Thinking back on it all now, Sylvea would have scoffed at how naïve she had been, if she still had the strength. This time actually felt like the voracity would do her in once and for all. Lapsing in and out of consciousness, the infinitesimal part of her brain still coherent enough for thoughts was filled with regret. All those battles, all those tireless efforts to try and keep her head above and breathe even as the universe tried everything in its power to shove it back under its murkiest depths would all be for naught in the end. It is nothing but a simple truth that Sylvea is not the quickest thinkers around, yet she was still proud to say her wit had gotten herself out of more than one sticky situation. Though it’s incredibly doubtful any sort of shrewdness would sufficiently compensate for the predicament of being too weak to move, her limbs, instead of feeling like actual flesh and bone, was more like the jiggly gelatinous sweet treats she sometimes got to see on the commercials laid out in the televisions displayed at the store. There was no denying it, no magic loophole appearing out of nothingness like a shining beacon. She wouldn’t be making it to see the sunrise in a few hours. She was going to die.

…But is it actually as bad as she’s making it out to be, really? Everything felt like she was just running through an endless dark tunnel, blindly putting one foot after the other and hoping for the best, without even the merest flicker of light to be used as guidance. She had no goal, no real use, no person to grieve if she were to disappear. Conceivably, perhaps a passer-by or two would look upon the loss with a sigh and a shake of their head, but they would probably forget all about it by sundown at the latest. She would have preferred to go down fighting, at least proving to the vindictive fates that she had tried to resist, that she would refuse to submit even until the end. But a cowardly weakling does not have the right to make choices. All she could hope for was that there would be no more hunger or thirst once she passes over to the other side; she was getting rather tired of feeling like death at every waking moment.

Though it seems Sylvea does not have the favor of whatever being that runs this cosmos, as a loud scuffling noise penetrated the otherwise quiet midnight air in the shabby alleyway she had called her home for the past two years. She didn’t even bother to even shift or cover her ears, and she doubts she would have been able to do so if she tried. So she lay still, and hoped whatever creature that had found its way into this place would see itself out. But apparently it had no intention of doing so, as the little commotion continued, now accompanied by small hisses and the increasing noisiness of crinkling plastic bags resounded, likely the result of the creature’s hyperactive movements. After everything she’s been through, every ounce of resolution to just survive dwindling down into nothingness, Sylvea thought she at least deserved a quick, painless and quiet death. Given the current state of affairs, “quick” and “painless” could not be helped, but she would hate to let everything slip away to such an irritating noise. So, even if her exhausted limbs screamed its loudest in protest, she dragged herself, agonizingly slowly, into a sitting position, not even reacting as the blanket fell from her shoulders. Carefully waiting a few minutes for the world to stop spinning, she observed the creature that had disturbed her tranquility. The cat was a mangy, emaciated thing; it’s fur was pitch black, making it almost impossible to see with the darkness had it not been for the patches of bald skin and its sharp, glowing yellow eyes, nothing but a mixed blur of color as the creature pounced and leapt, playing with something she cannot see. Sylvea wouldn’t say she has much of a soft spot for animals, especially with the skinny, diseased ones one would encounter while living how she does, but she doesn’t mind them all that much, usually. She just wants some silence where she can fall asleep.

“Hey!” 

She hisses to the feline, voice rough from long periods of disuse and words slurring together slightly as she forced her throat to form the correct syllables. The cat paused in its activities for a second, considering her with those calm, piercing eyes.

“Go away. Shoo!”

The tabby paid no heed to her apparent unwelcomeness and continued satisfying its own interest instead, turning back to paw at its current prey once more. So they had to do this the hard way, then. Forcing herself onto shaking legs, she leaned heavily onto the wall the moment she stood upright, arduously willing her uncooperative body to not immediately crumple to the ground as white spots danced in her vision. She was positive she would have thrown up by then, if she still had anything left in the stomach. Every step forward felt like torture, and Sylvea was almost amazed her intestines hadn’t immediately spilled out onto the squalid concrete. But she pushed onwards, and after what felt like an eternity she felt the object she had been intending to make her way towards hit her foot. Picking up one of the empty cans that had dropped off of the overflowing dumpster, she squinted through the darkness, laboring for her disobliging vision to focus as she lifted her arm, deciding an appropriate angle to take aim. The cat had stopped its little game, and had begun masticating away at its prey. Once pleased with her calculations, she propelled her hand ahead, letting the tinned item sail through the air. Thankfully, the object hit the cat’s flank, her intended target, with a soft thump and Sylvea allowed herself the tiniest sigh of relief. A part of her feared she had injured the feline despite the weakness in her throw, but the scraggly creature only gave a startled jump, abandoning its meal to hiss at her. Then it turned, and with one last look of great dislike thrown at her from over its shoulder as well as an annoyed flick of its tail, the black cat jumped over the wall, disappearing from sight. 

Her stomach rolled uncomfortably, accompanied by a large gurgling noise, echoing loudly against the hollow walls of the alleyway; the sheer ache of it was enough to make her knees buckle, but she somehow managed to refrain from simply keeling over and close her eyes, letting death’s claws come to rip her soul from a lifeless corpse. Instead, she turned, carefully to keep her movements steady and measured. She can’t afford to fall over now, she doesn’t know if she would still have the strength to get back up if she did; even standing still was difficult enough. But the pink-haired girl had barely shifted a muscle before the clouds previously covering the moon were blown away, parting aside to let the celestial body cast its soft, elegant silver light down into the almost unworthy ill-lit space, and Sylvea could see what the cat had been so interested in before, laying unmoving on the ground. She could hardly make out what the thing was at first, whatever it is having been so eviscerated it looked like less of an actual entity and more of a mound of torn flesh and blood. It wasn’t until she had gotten a couple stumbling steps closer, squinting to try and get her eyes to focus all the way did she realize it had once been a rat, mauled and lacerated until it is as good as unrecognizable.

Having spent most of her life as a penniless orphan living in absolute destitution, Sylvea can safely guarantee that she had born witness to plenty of horrifying sights. However, that would never be equivalent to getting used to such a thing, if the acidic bile threatening to claw its way out her lips were anything to go by. Urging her body to turn around, she was more than displeased to find her legs rooted to the ground, eyes still glued to the viscera. She truly should stop staring at something considered to be the ordinary. This is hardly the ghastliest view one could lay their eyes on, after all. The best course of action would be to turn around, back to her makeshift bed of cardboard and schmatte and close her eyes, just like she should have been doing for the past while. There was nothing to eat, no point in struggling, so she should just stop trying altogether. The sooner she would let life do what it does best, weeding out incapables such as herself, the better. Everything would be all over soon enough.

Unless…

Sylvea’s legs finally found their strength to move, but it wasn’t towards her sleeping space like she had intended it to. Instead, it felt as if some kind of invisible force was propelling her forward, and she was in a strange semblance to a trance, her downward gaze still incessantly fastened to the mutilated corpse of the animal, completely in control, yet also completely powerless in her own body. But in her enervated state, she knew her knees would surrender eventually and once she had come to a stop in front of the slaughtered creature, they did, with her barely able to catch herself on rawboned arms. With careful, trembling hands, she gently scooped the carcass up, bringing it closer to her face. She sucked in a shuddering breath, the overwhelming scent of blood filling her nostrils. She couldn’t tell if the dizziness was from her prolonged starvation, or if it was from the sheer terror of what her instincts were telling her to do, whispering poisonous, dark thoughts into her mind with its crooning, repulsive voice.

But it is indeed meat, is it not?

This isn’t right. She shouldn’t do this. She musn’t. Stars, she really musn’t. This isn’t supposed to happen, this is a rat, this was once a living breathing animal, who knows where it had been, what kind of pathogens and germs it could have been carrying on its body, please, she can’t, she wouldn’t-

She needs to eat.

But she doesn’t want to die. Despite every grim notion of acceptance drilled into her brain like a brand, the very thought of fading away still sends shivers up and down her small spine. She doesn’t want to die. 

She needs to eat.

There were still so many things she wanted to do. She still hadn’t found out what chocolate tasted like yet. She still craved the feeling of being wanted, like those groups of friends she had watched walk home from school together, laughing and talking as they regarded each other with care and affection. She still wanted to have the book with the serious-looking cover displayed behind the glass of the bookstore she passes by every once in a while. To know what it feels like to ride a bus. To find a place where she wasn’t set aside as just a dirty little street rat. She doesn’t want to die.

She needs to eat.

Jaws clamped down on the flesh with determined fervor, sharp canines tearing aggressively away at the tough meat. Chewing quickly through the matter, she doesn’t hesitate in the slightest before lunging in for the next bite, not unlike the ravenous ferocity of a wild animal, but she couldn’t care less. She could feel blood dribble down her chin, the sanguine fluid oozing from the gaps in-between her fingers and seeping into the pathetic excuse of torn rags she calls a dress, some of it dripping onto the ground. Everything faded into an endless cacophony of red and shadows, and she wasn’t aware of anything other than the wet and slippery lump of meat clutched tightly in her hands, fingers digging into the flesh and the vehement chewing, the sensation of something she could not even bear to call sustenance travelling down her throat. 

It felt like both an eternity and a meager moment before she felt she could eat no longer, letting the rat carcass fall onto the concrete in a pile of mangled flesh, guts and bones, limp hands finally lowering to grasp at where the dress gathers at her knees, the fabric bunching up in her grasp. The girl tilts her head of greasy, tangled pink hair pouring down to her waist upwards ever so slightly, her face filthy, caked with blood; cerulean eyes completely devoid of any emotion as her gaze lifted to the sky, a silent question to whatever being that would be looking down, if there were any at all.

It must have been entertaining, huh?

There was no answer, the clouds overhead simply continued drifting away, completely unaffected by the happenings of the mortal realm down below.