Before the Bell Tolls

Iyobosa woke up starving. A hunger that came with an itch, from his neck to deep in his gut. A hunger he couldn’t reach. There was nothing to eat in his one-room apartment. The pots clanged empty. The fridge offered nothing but melting ice. Iyobosa buttoned his shirt with sweaty fingers, glancing at the clock above his bed.

6:55 PM, it read—five minutes to curfew.

He dug out some money from a discarded pair of jeans on the floor and stuffed it into his breast pocket as he skipped out of the room. Iyobosa took the stairs in threes. Outside, day bled into night. He scratched his neck as he hurried to the only open kiosk down the street. When he got to it, the old trader was already locking up the store, which also doubled as her living quarters. Four minutes left.

“Please wait!” he pleaded as she put away her wares.

“What—what are you doing outside?” The woman couldn’t hide her alarm.

“I need something to eat.” Iyobosa reached into his pocket for some cash.

“This is Uromi, boy. You don’t want to know what happens to those who are found beneath these darkening skies,” she croaked, displaying a pair of yellow crooked teeth. Teeth clattering with fright.

Iyobosa caught sight of the old woman’s frail hands and the veins crisscrossing along them. For a second, he thought he heard the blood throbbing within them.

“I know… I know the stories,” he said, panting. “Please just give me bread so I can hurry back home. There’s still time!” The boy glanced down at his watch. Three minutes.

“Hmmm. Okay,” the woman mumbled.

She began to sift through a carton that seemed to hold a variety of goods. Iyobosa’s face became a grimace as he watched her poke through the box like a snail. Her pace was not matching her alarmed expression. He tore his eyes away from her, hoping the act would suddenly make her faster. The streets were deserted. Plastic bags rustled in the evening wind. Not a soul in sight. If there were, they wouldn’t have been easy to spot, as it was hazy and near dark. The local government chairman had skimped on getting street lights for the community. Just like his predecessor, and the one before that.

“Here you go.” The woman stretched a loaf of bread towards him.

Iyobosa snatched the bread and pushed a clump of squeezed notes into her hand. Then, he ran. Two minutes.

He tore at the bread as he darted home. His patience had run thin. The hunger was ripping at his insides, and home seemed too far away. As he sped past a side street, an old man hobbled out.

“Eiee!” Iyobosa jumped, holding his hands towards the man as if to ward him off.

“Please, anything you have will be fine,” the man said as he held out a steel cup with a single tarnished coin inside.

“Why are you still outside?” Iyobosa asked before frantically throwing some spare change the old man’s way. He turned back on his heels. His building was within sight.

The bell rang. 7 pm.

The old man who had bent to pick up the money froze. Snapping out of it, he grabbed the change and hurriedly began to limp down the street.

Iyobosa ran to his building, bread crumbs falling from his hands as he slipped and stumbled to the gate.

It was locked.

“Let me in! Let me in!” He screamed as he banged on the iron gate. “Please, please, please!” he cried. “Open the gate!”

He finally stopped when no answer came. The street remained silent save for his rabid breathing and the sound of dragging feet in the distance. Iyobosa sprang up and made after the old beggar who still hadn’t gone far. The itch in his neck was still there.

“Oga. Oga,” he called after him.

The old man stopped to look back. His eyes widened as he seemed to look into Iyobosa’s own eyes, or maybe past them. Iyobosa wasn’t sure. The one thing he was sure of was the fear that built in the man’s eyes. The old man up and fled.

Uncertain, and in a state of frenzied terror, sweat wading down his face, Iyobosa went after the man. But he couldn’t keep up. The itch had become unbearable, spreading across his entire body. So he stopped, and he scratched, and scratched, and scratched, and his skin peeled off with his fingers.

Iyobosa panicked. His mind leapt from thought to thought like a stone skipping across the water.  Something was wrong. This wasn’t any ordinary hunger, he thought to himself as he collapsed to his knees, scratching all over and screaming in a voice that seemed deeper in his ears. Was it the old beggar? Did they do this to him?

Iyobosa clawed off his skin, his muscles bulging, growing; his bones crushing into each other. His flesh squelched and reformed as limbs expanded and sharpened, nails extending, piercing through his tissues and emerging bloodied: red on sharp white. Soon, there was no skin left, and he was standing, growling, and looking down from a higher distance than he normally did.

He saw red. Only red. He smelt it. Underneath the musky scent of unwashed clothes and a hint of brass and copper, he tasted meat on the air. Ahead of him, there was…food.

He tore off in bounds towards the meat on two legs running feebly away. The quarry’s grey cloak fell to the ground, as it tried to escape his hunger. More red filled his eyes as he slashed with seven-inch claws. A metal cup clattered to the ground, a tarnished coin aglint in the dark.

***

Iyobosa woke up starving. A hunger that came with an itch, from his neck to deep in his gut. A hunger he couldn’t reach. There was nothing to eat in his one-room apartment. The pots clanged empty. The fridge offered nothing but melting ice. Iyobosa buttoned his shirt with sweaty fingers, glancing at the clock above his bed.

6:55 PM, it read—five minutes to curfew.

He searched for some money amidst a pile of clothes, throwing aside a shirt here, a pair of trousers there, a grey cloak, a bed sheet, till he finally discovered some money in the breast pocket of an old shirt. He stuffed it into his back pocket as he skipped out of the room, to find food…