Hello to the few who may read this! This story hasn't been updated in a year or so--mostly because I haven't had the time, energy, or, frankly, creativity to continue writing. After revisiting this now, I don't hate it as much as I would usually hate an old draft. That said, there are enough changes and tweaks I'd like to make that I've decided to rewrite it instead of editing the entire 46 thousand words of Eaten first draft. So, please enjoy what there is here, and expect some updated, re-written material in the future--if not in the coming weeks, then over summer.

I was just twelve years old when I saw Eaton for the first time, though I doubt it was the first time he had seen me. I didn't think of it at the time, but I'm nearly certain now that he knew me well long before I ever noticed him watching from in the shadows or just around a sharp corner. I think he thought of himself as a sort of guardian to me; a kind of real-life angel to watch over me. He wasn't an angel, of course, but I think he must have been close to it.

I think, even before I ever knew him, I must have meant something to him. I gather he was quite lonely before we became friends. I think, like me, he didn't have anyone for him. No family, no one to care for him or watch out for him. Maybe that was why he did what he did for me. I was all alone; I had no clue what it was like to care for someone and have someone care for me. It was totally foreign to me, and I think Eaton aimed to change that.

And I think he did. Before I met him, I didn't think I could ever have a friend or a family. I didn't think it was possible, considering who I was, what I was--that is to say, I was a monster. Even Eaton couldn't change that part of me, but he tried. He may not have succeeded, not entirely, but I know there was--is--some change in me, and I have only Eaton to thank for it.

I was cold. I felt sure it might rain or maybe even snow soon. Everyone else had a home to return to, with walls and a roof to protect them from the harsh weather. I didn't. I had not much to protect me even from the wind; not fat, nor cloth. I wore no shoes, and the thin dress I wore resembled a nightgown, however dirty and stained it was now. It had once been white, but now it was a bloodstained, off-white mess of a thing. I didn't care; I didn't have the energy to. What good would new, clean clothes have done me, anyway? I would only dirty them.

Not only was I cold, but I was hungry, too. Sometimes, kind people might give me scraps or leftovers if I was shaking hard enough, or if my eyes looked wide and innocent enough. Sometimes, I might have found something to eat in the trash or, if ever I was hungry enough, on the dirty ground. I was quite young, yes, but I knew even then that beggars cannot be choosers, and I was a beggar. 

I wandered down the street. My feet dragged. My stomach screamed for food. It felt like I could hear it--yelling, calling, demanding I obey its wishes and find something to eat. It was difficult. Night had already fallen, and I could see dark clouds gathering. It was going to rain. Soon, it did. Being soaked to the bone with cold water from above was unpleasant. By the time I spotted one lone man stumbling down the street, I was shivering fiercely, but I was so happy. I was so relieved to finally see someone.

I picked up my previously-lacking pace. I was tired, but excited, and my hunger pulled me further. Tonight, I would eat. I had to. I always put it off for as long as I possibly could, and by the time I was ready to acknowledge this insistent hunger, it was always far too late to go about it thinking clearly. All I could think seeing that lone man was, hurry, hurry, hurry! Don't let him get away! I was all too eager to listen.

The nearer I got, the better he looked. I thought he must have been drinking. He stumbled, picked himself back up. I wondered, Is that was being drunk looks like? Whatever. He was alone and looked like he couldn't defend himself if he tried. That was ideal; I thought it was perfect. I always felt bad doing this, but the guilt never came until after. In that moment, I was a predator and he was my prey. There was no time to feel guilty, no room in my stomach for anything but the food it craved.

We met at the corner of a building which made up one side of a wide-enough alleyway. I saw fire escapes and an emergency exit door on each building, and a dumpster against the side of one. That was good. If he didn't survive--I doubted he would--I could drag him behind the side of the dumpster; at least, I could try. 

I grabbed onto the man's hand, tugged him forward a few steps. He leaned against the side of the building. I knew better, but I was so hungry. I was too hungry even to attempt to subdue him. He hardly looked like he knew what was going on; undoubtedly, all he saw was a homeless child, probably about to ask for money or food. Instead, I bit into his hand, that meaty part of his palm. My teeth were sharp. They easily cut through his skin.

He yelped and pulled his hand away sharply. It was too late. My teeth had dug far too deep into his skin for him to simply shake off my bite--he got his hand back, but not all of it. Realizing part of his hand was missing seemed to sober him up. He looked mad. By the time he had turned that angry gaze on me, I had chewed and swallowed. He almost growled at me, I think, and he said, "Little fuckin' shit!" I frowned. I could already feel tears gathering. I took a step back. I would have turned to run, but I was too hungry, and I couldn't be satisfied with that small taste. I needed more. I wanted more. "I'm so sorry," I tried to say, but it came out as a whimper. It wouldn't have calmed him, anyway.

I saw him raise one of his hands. He was about to hit me, and I knew he wasn't going to hold back. As his hand came down, I took another quick step back. He reached out to grab hold of me. I ducked under his arms and retreated into the alleyway. Secretly, I was hoping he wouldn't give up. I hoped he would chase me. He did. I faced him, backing further into this private place. He followed. I kept backing up until I felt my foot back into something hard and cold--the dumpster. I stepped to the side, took one step away from the dumpster and toward the man. He stepped forward. I didn't back up any further.
He took another step toward me. And another. Another. I fidgeted. I was nervous; I didn't know if everything would work out. He grinned. He thought I had given up. He thought he was going to get me--he picked up the pace, stepping toward me faster, half-bent to accommodate my height, arms outstretched as though to grab me. This would require some good timing. I hoped I would get it right.

I did. Again, I ducked under his arms, stepping to the side, out of his reach. He stumbled to a stop--too late. I pushed him against the dumpster with as much force as my weak arms could. He tried to catch himself, but he only stumbled over his feet. His head collided with the edge of the dumpster and he fell to the ground.

The guilt had started to set in, but a new surge of hunger shoved it aside like it was nothing. That hunger forced my feet forward. It forced me to kneel on his back. It forced me to pick up his head and bash it into the ground, just to be safe, and it forced me to pull aside the neck of his shirt, tugging on it until it gave and ripped to allow me direct access to the smooth flesh of his shoulder.

I was so hungry by then, and the taste I had gotten earlier only served to pull my mouth to his skin like the strongest magnet I could think of. My teeth sank through his flesh just as easily as they had when I bit his hand. It felt good to finally eat. It would certainly satisfy the monster in my stomach that demanded I commit such an act as this.

That little monster may have been satisfied, but I only felt bad, I hated this--I was not a hateful person, and I never have been, but I can say with certainty that I hated myself for doing what I did, and I hated whatever it was in me that made me do it. I felt genuinely guilty for the people I harmed; if I had any means of helping them, I certainly would, but I was young and clueless and scared--and most of all, I was hungry.

I don't know how long passed before I had finished eating, but his shoulders and upper back had been torn apart; I could see exposed bone in a few spots. I wondered if someone might be able to immediately recognize this mess as human, but I didn't wonder for long. With my hunger satisfied, I was once more free to feel as tired as I had earlier. With nowhere else to go, I did the first thing that came to mind: I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and my hand on my dress, resulting in a fresh stain; then I dragged the man the best I could to sit him up against the side of the dumpster farthest from the street we had entered from; and I curled up on the opposite side. I didn't want to sleep next to that torn-apart body, but I did not want anyone to spot it from the street.

Sleep did not come easy. I cried much of the night. I imagine it is hard enough to deal with having blood on one's hands as an adult--as a child, it felt almost unbearable. Eventually, though, I fell asleep, and even while being pelted by the cold rain that refused to cease falling upon me, I slept deeply. I always did. It was an acquired skill; there are many of things a child may find it best to learn to ignore when sleeping alone and outdoors when not even the moon can be bothered to shine down on you.

When I awoke the next morning, it was no longer raining. The sun was already high in the sky, and though I was still quite damp and cold, there was no longer any rain or wind to worsen the situation. I could hear people walking, shoes shuffling along against the sidewalk. I could hear conversations being had, too far and too plentiful for my ears to make out much besides the occasional word or phrase which, with no context, made no sense in my head anyway. 

However, it was all the least of my worries. No one would pay attention to a dirty homeless girl such as myself, no matter how covered in blood I was. They didn't care. They all had their own lives to live, their own problems to worry about. I thought, though, that my problem might have been a little more pressing than that of the average upper middle-class working man who had the means to support his family and feed his children. Those people didn't have blood on their hands. Those people didn't have to worry about being brought to justice for eating innocent people. I did.

With a start, I remembered the drunk man from the night before. I didn't hear any breathing, aside from my own. I wouldn't be surprised if he died long before he resurfaced in my thoughts, but back then, I thought I might have still been able to save him. I wanted to save him, if I could--I thought if I at least tried, it might have meant I wasn't so bad after all, but I'm not too sure how I could have redeemed myself by helping a man I had fucked up so badly in the first place.

I pushed myself to my feet. My legs protested. I may have been awake, but they were still asleep after sitting in the awkward position I had folded them in all night. I wasn't worried. I planted my small hand against the side of the empty dumpster, stepping carefully in place until I was sure I could walk, unsupported, without toppling over. Slowly, I walked around to the other side of the dumpster. I was afraid of what I might find. I was afraid to see what I had done. I didn't have to see any of it, though. When I looked behind that dumpster, prepared for whatever horror I might have seen, I was both relieved and disappointed, in a way.

There was nothing there.