Insatiable Hunger: Chapter 11

The next week was me getting my affairs in order. Either way you look at it, I’m not long for this world. I invite my kids over for dinner, I still couldn’t bring myself to tell them. But I did go out of my way to remind them of where everything is, should anything happen to me.

After they leave, I sit down in my favorite armchair. The dim glow of the living room lamp casts shadows on the wall. I pull out the business card. My mind races, replaying the succubus’s words over and over like a broken record. “Become something more than just a mortal man.” The promise of power, of vitality, of escaping the inevitable decay of my body is tempting, dangerously so.

The weight of the decision presses down on me like an anvil, each second ticking by with the intensity of a countdown to eternity. I glance at the business card again, the letters “Ask for M.” seeming to leap off the paper. I rise from the armchair, the creak of the leather echoing through the silent house like a death knell. The keys jingle in my pocket as I move towards the door, each step deliberate, as if I’m walking towards my own execution.

I walk outside and the cool autumn air bites at my face as I step off the porch. All of my senses are heightened. I take a deep breath and get in my car. The engine roars to life, and I sit there for a moment, the heater blowing warm air that does little to chase away the chill in my bones. I glance at the house, the windows dark and uninviting, and feel a pang of regret.

Finally I get the nerve to put the car in gear and start driving. It isn’t long before the strip club’s neon sign comes into view, a gaudy beacon calling me closer. I park in the brightly lit lot, the silence oppressive, punctuated only by the distant hum of bass from within. I walk towards the building. A bouncer, different from the other night, gives me a slight nod and opens the door.

The air inside is thick with the scent of cheap perfume and stale alcohol as before. The girl behind the glass window looks up, her expression a mask of bored indifference until her eyes land on the card in my hand. I place it on the counter, the cardboard making a soft scratch against the surface. She picks it up, her eyebrows arching slightly as she reads the single letter printed on it. For a moment, there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity, maybe, or a hint of warning—but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. She nods once, curtly, and slides a ticket across the counter without a word.

As I step through the heavy curtains, the music pulses around me, a low, throbbing bass that vibrates through the soles of my shoes. I make my way to the bar, the soft crunch of peanut shells beneath my feet a reminder of the club’s tacky charm. The bartender, a gruff-looking man with a thick beard, barely acknowledges my presence as I take a seat on one of the worn stools. The bar itself is a mess of empty beer bottles and crumpled dollar bills, the surface sticky with spilled drinks.

The bartender’s thick fingers wrapped around a glass, wiping it with a dirty rag that seemed to leave more streaks than it removed. His eyes flickered towards me, a brief, uninterested glance before returning to his task. The music pulsed around me, the bass thumping in time with the erratic beat of my heart.

The waitress appeared beside me without a sound, her presence announced only by the faint rustle of her uniform against the stool. She was a silhouette against the dim glow of the bar, her features indistinct save for the faint shimmer of her name tag, which read “Lena” in crooked letters. Her hand brushed against my arm, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down my spine. “Follow me,” she murmured. She turned before I could respond, her hips swaying with a practiced rhythm as she navigated through the crowded room.

I hesitated for a moment, the weight of my decision pressing down on me like the heavy air in the club.