Short Story: “The Hunger,” Part 1

28 November 2025

As I describe below, the first part of the story that follows emanated from the deepest, darkest pit of my subconscious–a warning to any reader of tender disposition to pass on this story. . . .

18 March 2013

I grew up during the 1960s, a decade plagued by many social ills, including race riots, war protests & peace marches, women’s liberation, etc., but probably the worst of all was the war in Vietnam. One of my uncles was a navy flier, a navigator on a jet fighter; he would come home on leave and tell us all of the horror stories of things happening in southeast Asia. Being a sober and impressionable lad, I soaked up all his stories, along with the news reports of the day. The result was some very horrific–to a child–nightmares. Given an already overactive imagination, which added to the horror I already felt, these memories were sublimated in my subconscious, where they remained, percolated, and by distillation (as Freud named it) resurfaced, after I began writing creatively when I went back to college the second time, in the following dark & twisted tale. I urge caution on the part of the reader, as what follows is best described as ‘horrific’.

“The Hunger, Part 1″

I was once a religious man, committed to the high standard of traditional moral values. This you must know in order to comprehend the tragedy of my life. What I have become–I know not–some kind of animal which feeds on the blood and passions of others.

I believe it started in my college days, when I studied medicine–the details lost with the memories purged in the trauma I suffered. My past is like the seeds of a dandelion, drifting on an afternoon breeze. I recall little of who I was before the hunger came. Even now the hunger grows within, consuming the shattered remnants of my true past. Only by sheer will do I hold the hunger in check long enough to write down what truly happened before I forget. Opposed to the hunger is the guilt–guilt rising like a wave out of the past drowning me in sorrow and remorse, borne by the specter of who I was before they changed me into something not entirely human. Somewhere between hunger and guilt, my true self cowers in blind fear, seeking vainly to live the life that should be mine.

As I was saying, I think it began while I attended college, studying medicine. Because of my religious beliefs, I associated with others, who were of like mind–persons whose morals sailed far above the norm. In the early days of our involvement in Vietnam, we formed a religious coalition proposing to oppose peacefully intervention. We did not riot or burn our draft cards as many did later. We were patriots who loved our country and sought to change policy, working within the limitations of law to pressure the government into withdrawing from the war. In a short time, we found many supporters across the nation, arousing the ire of those who wished our presence in Southeast Asia to continue. Whether they were part of the government, associated with those in power, or controlling those in power, I could never learn. However, they commanded incredible authority and resources. Each successive spokesperson for our league found himself drafted and shipped to Vietnam, never to be heard from again. Now I know why.

My turn came on the eve of a national convention of our Christian league. The proceedings were to be broadcast across the nation. Two grim-faced MPs showed up before the conference opened, bringing me greetings from Uncle Sam. They claimed an error had prevented me from prior notification and that I must report the next morning for induction. Their sudden appearance surprised me not in the least–I expected it.

Rachel–Oh my Rachel! She is the only pure, wholesome thing left in my shattered life. Rachel pleaded and begged that I flee. Our families were both well-to-do. It would have been simple for either of them to send Rachel and me someplace where the government could not touch us. Our wedding vows recently made, we had not tired of each others’ undivided attention. I should have allowed her tears to convince me to flee. However, my patriotic upbringing constrained me to obedience. Like those before me, the MPs led me away. Soon, I raised my right arm and swore to defend the Constitution.

I stood on a dirt airstrip in South Vietnam, medical kit slung over my left shoulder and duffel in my right hand. From there, I traveled by chopper to a remote area of the country. A jeep carried me to my final destination, a village secluded and high in the mountains. However, if you asked me to find it on a map, I could not–the details are unclear. As we approached the village, the road stopped at the edge of a small river, swollen and muddy from heavy rain. A path crossed the river by way of a rope and wooden foot bridge. The driver halted and pointed across the bridge to the only stone building in the village. He left me standing by the bridge. I watched him disappear into the jungle before shouldering my medkit and duffel. Halfway across the bridge, I heard a click and part of the bridge gave way, pitching me into the small river. The cold water stung and scratched my skin as I floundered in the muddy flow. I crawled out, grateful the medkit and duffel were waterproof. I walked back to the bridge and saw that a rope had broken, spilling me into the river. A voice called my name. I turned and saw someone waving me toward the stone building. I followed a dirt path upwards and shook hands with a tall man who spoke with a southern drawl.

“Name’s Saunders, communications.”

“Bailey, medical officer.”

“How’d you get wet?”

“The bridge broke.”

“Why that son of a two-bit harlot! Didn’t he tell you how to cross the bridge without setting off the trap?”

“Must’ve slipped his mind.”

At the time, I thought nothing of it. Now as I reflect over the events of my recent past, I realize the accident with the bridge was part of their elaborate scheme to inflict me with this disease of the mind and body.

A curse exploded from Saunders. “Damn, are you going to be sick!”

“Why?”

“Follow me.”

Light leaked past the shutters, dimly illuminating the building’s single room, blue tinged smoke obscured the air. In one corner of the room on an army issue cot lay Trina Barrett, army nurse. In the terms of my former theology, she was the female version of the devil incarnate. Her hair, long and blond, framed a face teenage boys dreamed of. Blue eyes glittered in the shadows where she lay; her lips, dark crimson, wore a perpetual smirk, as if she laughed at something beyond the ken of any man. She rose with iron grace, taking note of my awestruck stare, her smirk widening into a smile. Had I known in that moment the horror which faced me, I would have gladly surrendered to the enemy rather than subject myself to the cruelty Nurse Barrett inflicted upon me. Even as I remember, a coldness grows in the pit of my stomach over my first meeting with Trina Barrett.

She looked me over, smirking, and noticed my wet condition. Her contralto voice purred. “How did you get wet?” She looked toward one of the shuttered windows. “Is it raining again?”

Saunders cursed again. “Mr. Moron driver forgot to tell him about the bridge trap.”

Nurse Barrett frowned, wrinkling her brow. “Strip.”

“What?”

“Strip!” Her voice no longer purred.

Saunders took my bags and pulled off my shirt. Trina squatted in front of me, undoing my belt; I tried to stop her, slap her hands away, but her grip did not loosen, and she pushed my pants and shorts to the floor. I saw that it was not the icy cold of the water which stung and scratched at my skin–my body, from the middle of my abdomen to halfway down my thighs, was covered by oddly mottled leeches. They were roughly the size of a man’s thumb, with blood-red spots, concentrated around my middle. Saunders, anticipating that I would pass out, looped a short piece of webbing over my wrists, and attached the webbing to a hook in one of the rafters. I went limp, hanging from the rafter.

To be continued. . . .