The hunger is endless. It gnaws at me like a wolf trapped in the cage of my ribs, a constant ache that refuses to fade. I wander through the ruins of what was once a city, my feet dragging against cracked asphalt, broken glass crunching beneath me. My movements are sluggish, uncoordinated, as though I’m a marionette being controlled by some cruel, unseen hand. Yet, deep within the decaying husk of my body, there is something else—a flicker of memory, faint but insistent, like the last dying ember of a once-roaring fire.

I don’t know how long I’ve been wandering. Days, weeks, months? Time has lost its meaning. The sun rises and sets, casting its golden light on streets smeared with the grime of desperation. Shadows stretch long across hollowed-out buildings, the carcasses of cars, and the bodies—oh, the bodies. Some are fresh, torn apart in grotesque displays of violence, while others are little more than bones, picked clean by things like me.

And then there are the screams.

At first, they stirred something in me, something primal and urgent. I would lurch toward them, my body driven by an instinct I couldn’t understand. But now, they are just noise, echoing in the empty spaces where my soul used to be.

I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I am silent, even as I hunger.

The hunger is all-consuming, but it is not alone. It fights with something deeper, something buried beneath layers of rot and ruin. Memories. Fragments of a life I no longer live. A face—a man’s face—sharp and clear in my mind’s eye for a fleeting moment before it dissolves like smoke. His name is there, just on the tip of my tongue, but the hunger swallows it whole before I can hold on.

I remember my name, though. Isabel Anderson.

I was Isabel Anderson, once.

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Now, I am something else.

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The first time I tasted flesh, it wasn’t because I wanted to. It was because I had to.

I remember that moment with a clarity that should terrify me, but instead, it just… is. There was a man. He was running, his breath coming in frantic gasps, his arms flailing as he tried to push through the shattered remnants of what might have been a diner. The scent of his fear was intoxicating. It called to me in a way that was both horrifying and irresistible.

I don’t know how I got there. One moment, I was wandering aimlessly, and the next, I was on him. My hands—once delicate, now gnarled and mottled with decay—tore at his flesh. His screams were a symphony, but I wasn’t listening to the music. I was lost in the feast.

And as I fed, a strange thing happened. The hunger eased, but only for a moment. In its place came a rush of something I hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity: power. I felt alive.

But it didn’t last.

The hunger returned, as it always does, and with it came the guilt.

I was Isabel Anderson. I had a life, didn’t I? A family? Friends? There were people who knew me, loved me. I cling to those memories, even as they slip away, eroded by the relentless tide of whatever I am now.

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The streets are quieter now. Most of the living are gone, either fled or dead. Those who remain are wary, always watching, always running. I don’t blame them.

If I could speak, I would warn them.

Run. Hide. Don’t let me catch you.

But I can’t speak. My throat is useless, my voice lost to the decay that has claimed the rest of me.

Instead, I wander. I listen to the echo of my footsteps, the wet, slapping sound of my feet against the pavement. I feel the pull of the hunger, dragging me forward, always forward.

And I remember.

I remember the way my skin felt when it was warm, the way the sun kissed my face on a summer’s day. I remember laughter, mine and his, tangled together like threads in a tapestry. I remember the taste of coffee, bitter and rich, and the way he smiled when he handed me a cup.

I remember dying.

Now, I am a ghost in my own body, a silent observer of the monster I have become. The hunger drives me, but the memories anchor me. They are all I have left of who I was, of what I was.

I don’t know how long I’ll wander. Perhaps forever. Perhaps until there’s nothing left of me but bones and dust.

But for now, I keep walking.

And I remember.