10/14/25
A Mother’s Touch
by Ibrahim Ridley
“FWC25-Hunger”
Mike lay sprawled out on his couch, snacking on bowls of potato chips—his only companion for weeks—but even that was vanishing. He’s had job after job, and each time he was fired, his hunger was always the root of it. Months earlier, he forgot his lunch, and his boss wouldn’t let him go home to grab it.
“He needed the team together to complete their sales pitch,” he said. It took his team three hours to follow the trail of half-eaten merchandise and blood and find him huddled in the bike room. When he turned to face them, his face was covered in gashes from the metal shards that clawed at his skin from biting into his coworkers’ bikes. Most of his team passed out from horror; some had to be held back from beating his face in, and a few others tried to sue. Once again, his diagnosis saved him. Some doctors diagnosed him with polyphagia when he was young. There was no cure; his parents were told that eventually he would starve out and die. His mother stepped up and did everything to help him. Her last words to him were ‘I’ll never leave, and I’ll never leave you hungry’, and she was as determined as they came. Tonight, though, he thought he had nothing but the stormy night and this movie.
Mike’s “treat” was sitting in the dark with a campy slasher on, unkempt hair, buckets of chips, and hygiene optional. It was nothing paranoia-inducing, just something campy like Jason in Space, or Halloween. Mike knew there existed no unkillable serial killer that could catch up to you, no matter where you go. No dream-dwelling, knife-handed, scab-faced monster man trying to torture you.
“No evils exist outside his door,” Mike said, shoving a handful of salty chips in his mouth. He ate just enough to awaken his craving for a beer. He at first didn’t want to leave his seat. The screams of the movie, the only sounds in his apartment, gave him enough motivation to lick his fingers and push himself to his feet. The sudden rush from standing made the room tilt. Nonetheless, he made his way into his barren kitchen, wiping his hands on his black shirt. Mike slowly reached for the handle of his refrigerator, wrapped his hand around the base, and pressed his thumb against the curve of the handle. The chill ran straight to the bone of his thumb. “Agh!”
Mike said, swinging open the door of his refrigerator. His fridge was often empty, so he hardly ever checked it. He bought the chips earlier today after lunch for his movie. His mother always told him he had poor spending habits. “But then again, she had the oddest way of saving money,” he said, reaching his hand past a container of stewed beans and leftover Chinese food to grab a beer. “What’s to fear when life has beer?” Mike sang.
When he pulled out the chilled bottle, he wrapped his thumb around the cold cap and twisted excitedly.
“Fuck!” he said as the metal cut into his hand. He jerked it back and saw the dark red blood crawl down his thumb. Then he quickly put the appendage into his mouth. A warm, eerie feeling of nostalgia washed over his body. He smiled, remembering his mom, who used to do the same. The only difference was that she frequently bit him too hard. When she broke skin, she would kiss the wound, then his forehead with her blood-stained lips. On-screen, a sudden scream knifed the room, and he jumped.
The sound came from behind his front door. It was the knock of an irritated guest, and with it came hunger. It spread through his body, draining the strength and heat from his limbs.
“I’m not answering this time,” Mike said, putting his beer down on the granite island in his kitchen and going upstairs to his bathroom sink. The cold was almost comfortable—the kind that earns hot chocolate or time in a blanket. This chill intensified until his eyes began to roll upward and he felt faint.
“Are you hungry?” Mike heard. It sounded like his mother’s voice, but wilder and shaken by static. Her question repeated, getting closer until the tender tone reached his ear.
“Then eat up,” it shrieked. “Hurry! Hurry! We can’t get caught!”
Dozens of images flashed through his mind at dizzying speeds; they were filled with bloody images, and his hands were full of raw, uncooked chunks of flesh. Nauseating whiffs of viscera and sulfur struck his nostrils and palate. In his stupor, he caught himself by tightly gripping the bowl of his sink. Mike rested there for minutes, maybe hours; he never knew. But when he looked up at the cabinet, he yelped. Then he had a dry chuckle.
He at first didn’t recognize himself; he slowly stepped back into the view of the glass and saw that his eyes had become sunken. They had dark circles and scratches around their cheekbones; he looked like a skeleton had gotten into a fight with a raccoon. The blood from his thumb masked his lips like thin lipstick and spread to his nose. When he looked at the aching hand, he was wielding a kitchen knife. His grip was tight enough to shake the tool in his hand. The blood from his thumb messily stained the pale wood handle an odd pinkish color. Mike set the knife on the counter and backed away from it.
Mike returned to the mirror with a groan and adjusted his treatment with his shaking hands. She wanted him anxious; he loved her but knew her strategy. She poked at him until he was weak enough. He rifled through his cabinet to find his gauze and bandages. “I’m getting blood everywhere. Mom would be pissed that I’m wasting precious juices,” he mocked.
Mike suddenly began to feel dizzy and weak; he almost collapsed to the floor, but he was able to treat his thumb with gauze and tape. Then his stomach let out a growl so foul it made his knees buckle. He had eaten lunch only about three hours ago; he couldn’t comprehend the hunger that sprang from his gut. It was a wriggly, draining feeling, like maggots ate their way into his abdomen.
Just as his mind began to clear, there was a thunderous banging at Mike’s heavy wooden door.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
It came so suddenly that Mike’s heart hit his chest and lurched him forward. A headache soon grew in Mike’s skull as he tried to comprehend these events. However, the three knocks came again, just as rhythmic and just as sudden as before.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
He tried to swallow the panic that rose, but whimpered as he stepped forward. The walk felt like a mile long. As he passed through the dim living room, he realized that it was darker than he remembered. The television was turned off; he found himself alone, with only the kitchen light at his back and the howling winds of the cold at his front. Mike approached the darkness until he was face-to-face with the wooden door. He had had the television on earlier, so he couldn’t hear the creaks and groans of his townhouse, but now they were just as loud as the television. He raised his hand toward the doorknob and felt a bead of sweat trickle down his brow. It felt cold, or maybe it was his skin. He wasn’t sure.
Mike desperately wanted to go to bed and ignore this night, but he did not want to be woken up by that bone-shaking noise from his door. He imagined being in front of the television instead of with his chips, but the pain in his thumb ran him into more blood-soaked images. He escaped by opening his eyes, grabbing the knob, and swinging the door open, with his chest puffing as large as it could go.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
“Come in!” Mike sang into the dark, stormy abyss. The rain dressed his face with a cold dew and answered back with howling wind and swishing trees. Once he was certain there was no evil outside his door, Mike began to close the door. However, his spine grew stiff when he felt five long, bony fingers curl around his shoulder. Her frost crept across his joint. “Mother, please,” he whimpered. Tears and mucus ran down his reddening face. “When will you leave me be?”
The chill of her touch had the joint of his shoulder squeaking in pain.
No matter how he pleaded, she ignored him. She grew impatient. Her hand guided his shaking body to approach the large knife on the counter.
“You’re so hungry, dear,” his mother said. Her voice was unlike how Mike remembered it. With her sweetness came static that made his skin crawl. “Mothers feed their children. It’s time for dinner.”
Mike’s stomach growled a deep, otherworldly sound. The pain was always like the first time; unbearable doesn’t begin to cover it. However, when the pain came, he knew he’d forget what came next. He held his stomach and caught himself with his hand closest to the countertop. His fingers scraped the surface, and he clenched the hand on his stomach hard enough to bruise the skin. Mike wanted to scream, but he lost his breath, while his mother whispered in his ear.
“Don’t fight the hunger,” she hissed. Her breath smelled like ice cubes made of vomit. “Who cares about morals? Eat for mommy.”
Then Mike let go, like he always did. Drool fell from his heaving mouth. Mike rose, his fingers curling tightly around the worn handle. The blood from his thumb tinted its pale oak. Another slam came from the door being pushed into the wall by the howling wind. He snapped his head and walked out into the abyss. His expression was no longer one of pain, nor was it an expression. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his mouth expressionless and hanging open. The scent of cold stomach acid escaped his pores, and the thundering dark storms were his smokescreen. He was not a hunter, nor a beast. Mike was merely a tool to hide his mother’s secrets in his belly.
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