Fungal Halo

I have a pit where my stomach should be, an endless hole that nothing fills. When my hunger grows out of control and my self-control lapses, I find myself gripping the neck of someone beautiful again, maybe in a dark alley or in their own bedroom, as the light fades from inside.

When is a mirror not a mirror? Perhaps when it has been carved into and reshaped and repurposed into a well from which unreality may be drawn.

Is a doll still a doll when its emptiness is all that is put to use, filling it like a bucket from the well and drawing it back?

The signs are subtle at first, easily missed. A faint shimmer in the sky. A whisper on the breeze. A thought that tastes a bit off. This time I was lucky and caught them early, giving me time to prepare. Not much that can be done, but I could cancel plans and send people away.

She cries and cries and cries, tears flowing until they run out, then turn to blood, and then finally all capacity for tear making is utterly exhausted.

Still the IV sends a steady stream of grief into her, and she is wracked with dry sobs until her body gives out entirely.

Have you ever seen a doll that has been excessively emptied by an inexperienced or careless witch?

It's a sad, strange thing. It cannot hear commands. It cannot speak. It cannot move at all! It is a meaningless, decorative object at best, nothing anyone would want.

But I do.

I try to rise, and my knees buckle and give out, dropping me back to a seated position. I try again, steadying myself against the wall with my hand.

The pressure builds in my head, ignored, while I wonder what's wrong with me.

Then it occurs to me: she's coming back.