Hunger… they say hunger is the best spice. That hunger is a good thing, a sign you’re still alive. It’s a sign of being a human. It’s good for you, they say. That it’s the brain’s way of telling you to nutrient yourself.

But hunger couldn’t be anything else but the most dangerous foe and opposition before me right now. With what I did, I don’t think so. I don’t think that anything else but the rumble in my stomach could even hope to be my present arch nemesis. My appetite murders me slowly, but I cannot move. I could already taste the seasoned, cooked chicken in my mouth. I would have been in the act of tasting it, if I hadn’t been stupid enough to forget my key inside my house.

I try hard to send myself to slumber in this cold, damp darkness. I brush my long, unkempt hair from my face with my hands... I try hard to keep my body and bosom comfortable and warm. To my fortune, the quilts and comforters that lay in the surrounding barrels provided more than enough protection from the biting cold of the air outside… but still, my stomach growls, as I lay down atop of my old Piano-Synthesizer, the platform of plastic, circuitry, and wood serving as a makeshift chaise for my ill-fated adventure for survival.

I could see it now… to be back inside my temperate abode, the heater enough for me to shed my coat and sweater, and to sit comfortably in my chair, next to the table, as I helped myself to serving after serving of whatever filled my heart’s content. I would eat until I were satisfied and smiling.

But no, instead I am here… under siege by the cold and mighty winds of the outside, assailed by the darkness of my garage. I keep asking myself “why the hell I forgot my key?” My stomach growls again. And this time, I see a flashing light from underneath the garage door.

“MOM, DAD?!” I yell in my mind. The muscles in my face tense into a smile as I rush forward towards the metal gate. Its old, obsolete mechanical switch in neglected condition, I open it manually with my bare hands from the bottom, flipping it up to take a look outside.

“No dice…” I sigh, as I was only greeted in disappointment by the smiling headlights of my neighbors’ car. I pouted, like the moody girl I was, and lie back down on top of my makeshift bed.

It’s starting to get even colder. And my need (or was it a want?) for sustenance has become even harder and harder to curtail. My eyes reject the feedback of reality in front of me; reject the vision of the pitch black. It lies to me, satiating me with a table that is not there… dishes that are not there… FOOD that is not there…

My family with me around the table, and eating…

And that’s enough to push me over the edge. I grit my teeth and squint my eyes in anger, as I decide to brave the cold and find a way in… I wasn’t going to take this any longer, not without a valiant struggle.

As I swing around me my comforter like a cloak, I once again make open to the gates. I make my way to my backyard, the sight of the wilting trees and falling leaves serving as another painful reminder of the biting cold, my second worst enemy. Slowly do I decide to trot, first opening the recycling bin: if I did not have my key, I would make one… I would do anything to be inside; anything to replace the false vision with one that was true.

I reach into the bin and clasp on to an empty water container and I forcefully tear it apart with my freezing, bare hands, throwing the unnecessary excess back into the bin and leaving only a sharp, thick sheet of plastic slab in my hand.

“The murder weapon!” I jest psychotically in a low, but still loud voice. I can’t resist but continue to laugh at my snide remark, as I, the assassin, approach my victim: the back door. But this is no ordinary target, no, not at all; this is one who would fight back, who would guard the tranquility of the very house that it was attached to from all intruders too big to fit through its crevices, even if those intruders were, in the deepest of ironies, its own residents. Hehehe, but that doesn’t deter me. No, nothing will ever keep me from my need for sustenance, and undaunted, I charge straight at the enemy.

“Oww… oww… mmph, mmph, aahh! Awww, this sucks!”

Moments later, I’m back in the darkness of my garage, lying down again on my sorry excuse for a bed, although this time, with bleeding fingers. I wish not into get into the details: judging by my weapon of choice, I do believe that it’s easy to determine why I butchered my digits so. Also, practically no brain cells are needed to process the simple fact that I still have not penetrated the stronghold and fortress that was my home. The darkness and cold of the concrete jail still continue to bite at me, as does my driving hunger and my dripping blood. I wonder how long I have to live.

“Hahaha, how long I have to live… Risa, you’re such an idiot… just don’t (Oww!) think about it…”

And thus, I fall into slumber, realizing that I will die in this frigid chamber of the abyss, that I will slowly fade away into oblivion… the prospect of satiating my stomach is but a lost enterprise, a hope long gone.

“Risa, stop overacting! Get a hold of yourself, you’re such a dickhead!”

I giggle in my sleep, laughing at myself for being so dramatic… nothing was forever, they will return soon… return home, and rescue me from this self-made prison.

“Stupid damsel in distress…” I smile, as I finally awake. I still hunger, but not so much anymore: I figure I can wait now, as a familiar hum of metal and mechanica fills the air. And the blaring light whose glare is so strong that it forces even this void of blindness and confusion to bow down to its whim when the gate is closed, is no more than the servant of my father’s Four-by-four.

I flip the garage door open, making my way out and gladly sighing into the cold air a cloud of relief, unmindful that my mother, my father, and my little brother are left in confounded amazement and uncomprehending disorientation as to why I would be in the garage when I should have been in the house.