Chapter 3: The Feral Feast

By Friday, Elias had managed to eat three full meals without losing control. Small portions, simple foods—scrambled eggs, toast with butter, a bowl of chicken soup that had tasted like liquid gold. Each meal was a careful negotiation between his ravenous hunger and his determination to stay human, to eat like a civilized person instead of the wild animal that seemed to be clawing at his insides.

He was proud of his progress. Proud enough to say yes when Stevey called with an invitation.

"The whole crew's getting together at Murphy's tonight," Stevey said. "Celebrating Cookie's birthday. You should come."

"I don't know, man. I'm still figuring out this whole eating thing."

"Perfect timing then. Murphy's has the best steaks in town. Time to celebrate your freedom, Ruff. You've been living on liquid for twenty-seven years—you deserve a real meal."

The idea was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. A steak. Red meat. The kind of food he'd watched others enjoy from the sidelines his entire life. Murphy's Tavern was where the fishing crews went to blow off steam, a loud, warm place that smelled of beer and grilled meat and the kind of camaraderie Elias had always observed but never fully participated in.

"I'll pick you up at seven," Stevey continued before Elias could protest. "Doc says I'm cleared to drive, and I'm dying to get out of the house. Sarah's been hovering over me like I'm made of glass."

Elias found himself agreeing, caught up in Stevey's enthusiasm and his own curiosity about how far he could push his newfound freedom. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? He'd learned control over the past few days. He could handle a simple dinner with friends.

Murphy's was exactly as he remembered—dim lighting, scarred wooden tables, the mounted fish on the walls seeming to watch the diners with glassy eyes. The smell hit him as soon as he walked through the door: charred meat, beer, fried onions, the accumulated scents of a thousand meals. His mouth watered instantly, and he had to grip the doorframe to steady himself against the wave of hunger that crashed over him.

"Ruff!" Cookie's voice boomed across the tavern. "About time you joined us for a real meal!"

The crew had pushed two tables together near the back, and they greeted Elias with the rough affection of men who'd worked together through storms and calm seas alike. Tommy slapped his back, careful of his healing leg. Big Jim raised his beer in salute. Even Martinez, usually quiet and serious, smiled and made room on the bench.

"What're you drinking?" Stevey asked, settling beside him. "And don't say protein shake."

"Beer," Elias said, surprising himself. He'd never been much of a drinker—alcohol and his liquid diet had never mixed well—but something about the moment demanded it. "Whatever's on tap."

The Guinness arrived dark and bitter, and Elias was amazed by how much he could taste in it. Not just the alcohol and hops, but the water it was made from, the grains, even the metal of the pipes it had traveled through. Everything had layers now, depth and complexity he'd never suspected.

"So what's good here?" he asked Cookie, studying the menu with the intensity of a scholar examining ancient texts.

"The rib-eye," Cookie said without hesitation. "Thick as your fist, cooked however you want it. Been coming here fifteen years, never had a bad one."

Elias found the entry on the menu: 16oz Rib-eye Steak - Choice of potato, seasonal vegetables. The words seemed to pulse on the page, and he could almost taste them just from reading. His hunger sharpened to a knife's edge.

"Medium rare," he told the waitress when she came around. "With everything."

The conversation flowed around him—talk of weather and fish prices and whose boat needed engine work. Elias participated, laughed at the right moments, but part of his attention was focused inward, on the growing anticipation in his stomach. The beer helped, dulling the edges of his awareness, making the wait more bearable.

When the steak arrived, conversation at the table died.

It was beautiful—a perfect slab of meat seared to caramelized perfection, juices pooling pink around its edges. Steam rose from its surface, carrying scents that made Elias's vision blur with need. The potato was loaded with butter and sour cream, the vegetables gleaming with oil and seasoning.

"Jesus, Ruff," Tommy whispered. "Look at your face."

Elias wasn't sure what expression he was wearing, but he could feel the change in himself. The civilized part of his mind, the part that remembered table manners and social niceties, was rapidly being overwhelmed by something much more primitive. His hands trembled as he picked up the knife and fork.

The first cut released a rush of bloody juice that made his mouth flood with saliva. The meat separated easily, revealing the perfect pink interior, and the smell that rose from it was intoxicating—iron and protein and life itself.

He took a bite.

The world exploded.

Every cell in his body screamed with recognition and need. This wasn't food—this was completion, the missing piece of himself that had been denied for twenty-seven years. The meat dissolved on his tongue, releasing flavors so intense they bordered on hallucinogenic. He could taste the cow's life—green grass and sunshine, the salt of wind over pastures, even the moment of death that had brought the meat to his plate.

Distantly, he heard his friends' voices change tone, concern creeping in, but their words seemed to come from very far away. The steak commanded all his attention, all his being. He took another bite, then another, each one better than the last.

Somewhere in the rational part of his mind, he knew he was eating too fast, making sounds that weren't quite human. But the meat was calling to him, demanding to be consumed, and he was powerless to resist. His fork clattered to the floor, forgotten. He used the knife to cut larger pieces, then abandoned that too and used his hands to tear the remaining meat from the bone.

"Ruff." Stevey's voice was sharp with alarm. "Ruff, slow down."

But Elias couldn't slow down. The hunger was a living thing inside him now, a beast that had been caged too long and was finally free. He devoured the potato, the vegetables, soaking up every drop of juice with the bread, his hands and face slick with grease and blood.

When the steak was gone, the hunger didn't subside. If anything, it grew more demanding, more desperate. His eyes swept the table, cataloging the half-finished meals of his friends, the basket of bread, anything that could feed the roaring emptiness inside him.

"Easy there, brother," Big Jim said, his usual joviality replaced by something that might have been fear.

But Elias barely heard him. The scent of his own skin had changed, become somehow more appetizing, more edible. Without conscious thought, he brought his left hand to his mouth and bit down on the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger.

The taste of his own blood was electric, salty and metallic and right in a way that terrified the small part of him still capable of terror. He bit harder, feeling his teeth pierce skin, feeling the warm flow across his tongue.

"Jesus Christ!" Cookie lunged across the table, grabbing Elias's wrist and pulling his hand away from his mouth. "What the hell are you doing?"

The spell broke like a snapping wire. Elias blinked, suddenly aware of his surroundings—the shocked faces of his friends, the demolished plate in front of him, the taste of his own blood on his lips. His hand throbbed where he'd bitten it, four neat puncture wounds welling red.

"I..." He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a growl. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I don't know what happened."

The tavern had gone quiet around them. Other diners stared openly, some with phones out, probably recording. The waitress stood frozen by the bar, clutching a pitcher of beer like a weapon.

"We need to get you out of here," Stevey said quietly, already reaching for his wallet. "Now."

They left quickly, Stevey throwing money on the table while Cookie and Tommy flanked Elias like bodyguards, blocking him from view. The cool night air hit him like a slap, and he stumbled against Stevey's truck, his legs suddenly unsteady.

"What the hell was that?" Tommy demanded. "You looked like... like..."

"Like an animal," Martinez finished quietly.

Elias stared at his wounded hand, at the blood still seeping from the bite marks. The taste lingered in his mouth, and part of him—a part that was growing stronger—wanted more.

"I need to go home," he whispered.

The ride back to his apartment was silent except for the radio playing classic rock at low volume. Stevey kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror, worry etched deep in his weathered features.

"You want me to call someone?" Stevey asked as they pulled up to the marine supply store. "A doctor, maybe?"

"No." Elias's voice was hoarse, foreign to his own ears. "I just need... I need to figure this out."

"Whatever's happening to you, you don't have to go through it alone."

But as Elias climbed the stairs to his apartment, he knew that Stevey was wrong. Whatever was awakening inside him, whatever his mother had tried so desperately to suppress, it was something that couldn't be shared. Something that would make him a monster in the eyes of anyone who truly understood what he was becoming.

Inside his apartment, he avoided the mirror in the hallway, afraid of what he might see looking back. The taste of steak and blood still filled his mouth, and the hunger—barely sated by his feast—was already beginning to stir again.

Twenty-seven years of careful control, twenty-seven years of his mother's vigilant protection, undone by a single medical revelation and one perfect, terrible meal.

He was free now, just as Dr. Henley had promised.

But freedom, Elias was beginning to understand, might be the most dangerous thing of all.