They begin as they always do.
Jordan greets the guests as they come through the door, smiling broadly as she welcomes her colleagues and neighbors to her home. Her husband, Devon, has left to pick up groceries for the party. They have recently moved into the neighborhood, having traveled across the country for Jordan’s new job. They’re using the dinner as an opportunity to make new friends.
The first guests to arrive are Tracy, Devon’s line manager from work, and her wife, Olivia. Her colleagues, Collin, Marquis, and So-hee arrive together shortly after. Its readily apparent that Collin has already had a few drinks, but Jordan overlooks this for the sake of maintaining good relations, and decides to only say something should it become a problem.
Devon’s colleagues from the plant arrive next, and while normally somewhat rowdy, Matt, Roshell, and Andy’s boisterous personalities are stifled upon seeing the level of effort that Jordan and Devon have put into decorating their home. With a crooning record player at work enhancing the ambiance and filling any awkward pauses in conversation, the situation is entirely non-conducive for rowdiness, only emphasized by the artful “behave yourselves” look that Jordan gives the trio as they enter.
The last to arrive are the Mitchells and the O’Reillys, which is odd, because each family lives down the street. Tardy though they may be, Jordan welcomes them into the house with a beaming smile. Of all of the guests, her neighbors are the most important—they are who she’ll be living with for the many years to come. Their children will be the ones who grow and play with her own, though she has yet to learn of the baby in her belly.
With all the guests having arrived the party is now in full swing. Some of the guests are shyer than others. So-hee and Collin seem to have no issue integrating themselves with Andy and Roshell, but Marquis stands back by himself with a lemonade in one hand and his phone in the other, perusing the internet. No longer needed for introductions, Jordan steps to the side and brings her own phone out to make a call. The O’Reillys and the Mitchells fall into conversation about their children and the neighborhood, which Tracy and Olivia insert themselves into—they are both considering moving to the area. Andy wanders about, eyeing the baubles and records with a covetous look.
Having finished her call, Jordan returns to the party with a slightly furrowed brow that she hides behind a smile. She brings out appetizers and refills for her guests which they all too happily descend upon. Time passes rather predictably from there, full of idle chatter and jokes as everyone steadily grows more comfortable with each other. Eventually a little too much time passes and conversations start to dwindle. Some grow irritable.
With little choice, Jordan brings out the main meal, though she had hoped to wait a little longer. Her guests sit down, though most have the decency to express a modicum of guilt before doing so. They eat nevertheless, and the conversation picks up with renewed vigor. Jordan steps out to make another call. When she returns her brow is more furrowed and she is no longer smiling, but she resumes her duties as host with determination, if not also annoyance.
The party continues, but Jordan’s discomfort catches amongst the guests ever so slowly, until not even the softly-lilting music can fill the silence.
She takes it in stride, announcing to everyone that she will bring out ice cream and coffees to end the meal. A scattered round of forced excitement goes up, and while Jordan steps back into the kitchen she makes another call. She’s unable to prevent herself from pounding her fist on the counter in frustration this time.
A knock comes at the front door as she steps back into the dining room with the first cups of coffee. A look of relief washes over her, followed shortly by a tightening of her mouth. She sets the cups down a little too powerfully and stomps towards the door with stormy steps. When she opens it, mouth already moving in anger, she comes face-to-face with the two guests she had most feared.
The officers stare at her solemnly. They don’t say anything, as always. Their presence is enough.
Jordan collapses to the ground with her arms hugging her chest, and she screams. The party, her guests, and her home disappear with the trilling, discordant notes of breaking music as the dream crumbles around her and reality comes crashing down.
I smile and begin to feed.
Her sorrows, her hopes for the future, her anger, her loss—all of it comes rushing into me as she awakens to the sound of her baby crying. My belly slowly fills with all of the potent emotions from her dream, permeating shapeless body like ambrosia and sending me into a familiar stupor. Jordan raggedly steps out of bed with a harrowed look. I watch her march down the hall, passing by me without so much as a glance, and a pang of disappointment resonates through my core. Tonight felt like the final night.
With the birth of her child, Jordan was lucky if she slept in two-hour bursts a night, and when she did, she always had the same dream. I was grateful for it—she was such a wealth of delicious pain and emotional residue that I haven’t gone hungry for over a year.
While many of my kind are happy to follow their natures without question, I enjoy lingering by my prey to watch them after I’ve finished eating their dreams. Humans are so fascinating—when they’re young and full to bursting with imagination their dreams are vivid and sweet-tasting. It isn’t any wonder that most of us gorge ourselves on the young more eagerly than the old. But the more we feed the less vivid their dreams become, until eventually the sweetness turns stale. Curiously, the human’s behavior changes as a result—they “grow up,” or so it’s called.
But I don’t like sweet. I want bitter. Mostly for the taste, but also partly because I enjoy watching the change that comes over my preferred prey more than the others. Sometimes as I eat their bitterness away their dreams become sweeter—if only by a little bit—and the human becomes more…animated. I realize it’s a silly thing to take interest in, but we all must have our hobbies.
I can tell by the way my prey looks at her young as she feeds it that my inkling was correct—even worn, she appears different. Changed. Stronger. I will go hungry with her, but after so long being full I find it an easy thing to accept. Like a dream, every meal must end eventually.
ns 18.68.41.177da2
