Driven by Desire

Nemo had thought he was close to the tree when he had last spoken to the radiant youth—but that had been an illusion. The final stretch had taken far longer than expected. The journey from the youth's last words to the base of the so-called Tree of Hunger had dragged on, each step an agonizing battle against aching legs, sore feet, and arms numb with sluggish blood flow.

When he finally arrived, the sight of the tree up close was nothing short of revolting and awe-inspiring. He collapsed onto the pulsing flesh, catching his breath as his eyes climbed the trunk of the enormous growth. What had once vaguely resembled a tree from a distance now looked like a grotesque parody. Up close, its identity became undeniable.

It was a tree, yes—but barely. Its bark was not made of wood but of fibrous, sponge-like flesh. Every inch quivered subtly, as though the entire thing breathed. Its roots jutted out in twisted spirals of bone-white ivory, tangled in the stomach floor like the tendrils of a parasitic beast. Above, its leaves rustled gently, alternating between the chalky white of ancient teeth and the glistening black of old, clotted blood.

Even in this horrific form, its essence still radiated that of a tree. A terrible, devouring tree.

Nemo sat beneath it for a long while. He stretched out his hand and touched the bark, half-expecting it to recoil. It didn't. It was warm and pulsing. Alive.

He sighed. Again. He'd been doing that a lot since this whole ordeal began. Since his root had awakened, he had become someone who sighed more often than he spoke.

He was tempted to say something. Anything. His fault—the one carved deep into his being—itched in his chest. It whispered. It pushed. It wanted him to speak.

Don't do it, he told himself. Don't ask. Don't acknowledge that you know it can hear. Don't reveal anything.

He tried to clear his mind, tried to let the question dissolve into silence. Tried.

"How can I get back?" he blurted.

His heart sank. He clenched his jaw. "...Oh great tree of meat," he added hastily, with a grimace.

Nothing happened.

Silence reigned under the tree.

He waited. Five minutes passed.

"Where am I anyway—a stomach?" he asked, even though he knew.

Again, no reply.

So that's how it was going to be. He resigned himself to waiting in a grotesque parody of meditation beneath a carnivorous god-tree, hurling unanswered questions into the void like an idiot.

His hunger had been constant throughout the journey, but the sights and interruptions had kept it at bay. Now, with no distractions left, it surged back in full force. It was not subtle. It was not civil. It was a need—a primal, growling ache in his belly that turned his vision slightly red.

He scanned the environment. No food. Not even a half-rotten fruit, a dead insect, anything.

His stomach spasmed, curling with pain. He bit his lip to keep from retching. The tree's presence only made it worse. It was like it exuded hunger—like just being near it ignited an insatiable craving. It wasn't just physical. It was mental, spiritual. The kind of hunger that went beyond flesh.

He forced himself to his feet.

The lining of the stomach underfoot squelched with each step as he began to circle the tree, eyes darting in search of something, anything he could eat. Each step became more sluggish. He was dizzy. Unsteady. His vision swam.

Then—there. Up in the tree. Red fruit.

It pulsed slightly. Bright red, and wet-looking, with a skin that shimmered like oil. They were embedded in the tree's upper branches, hanging like temptations just out of reach.

He didn't even think. He just started to climb.

His body protested at first, but his hunger overrode the pain. As he ascended, his clarity returned—not because he was getting better, but because hunger took control. His earlier hesitations evaporated. The hunger climbed with him, pushing him higher, faster.

Closer.

The fruit was massive—easily twice the size of his head. Its skin rippled slightly under some invisible pressure, and it gave off a smell that was equal parts divine and nauseating. The scent seemed to curl into his nostrils and nest there, equal parts rotting honey and sun-baked meat.

There was a hypnotic quality to it—a sickly sweetness that made his jaw tighten with need even as his stomach churned. The surface of the fruit shimmered like wet silk, its skin twitching occasionally as if aware of his presence. It pulsed with something more than life—intention, perhaps. 

Hunger called to hunger. And the fruit responded by being impossibly desirable, unbearably near, and yet clearly, profoundly wrong. He reached out with trembling fingers, wrapped his hand around the thick, meaty stem—and paused.

The question came unbidden: "What are you?"

His voice was his own—but distorted. Like something else had spoken with him. Or through him.

And then something truly surreal happened.

His hand, the one braced against the fruit, opened. Literally opened. The palm split apart down the middle, cleanly, silently, revealing a network of translucent tendrils shockingly, harrowingly similar to the ones of the creature he had swallowed three days ago. They uncurled like jellyfish limbs, latching onto the fruit's surface. They pulsed. They vibrated. Tiny suckers latched and released, feeding impulses into the fruit. Sampling it.

And in return—it responded.

Nemo didn't hear a voice. But he knew. The information came in waves. Silent, overwhelming waves.

The fruit told him what it was.

Not in language. In truth.

But his hunger-blinded mind filtered most of it out. Only a few fragments remained:

—it had been grown for him.

—it was not food, but communion.

—it would not nourish, but bind.

—it had been watching him. Since before he woke.

And then… nothing. The tendrils retracted, melting back into his palm as if they'd never been there. His skin closed, smooth once more.

He blinked rapidly. Sweat dripped from his brow. His breath came in short gasps. He stared at the fruit. It pulsed slowly, waiting.

It called to him with a presence that was almost sentient. The hunger surged within him like a wave, washing away thought, memory, reason. His mind echoed with a single imperative: Eat. The scent, the texture, the glow—it was unbearable. A gravity pulling him in.

But something else came with the knowledge, just barely caught in the whirl of sensations.

Real fruits are deep blue in colour and found a bit higher in the tree but never too far away. This red fruit is not to be eaten, as it will rob you of your free will.

Nemo, hiding deep inside himself, was stunned by the sheer amount of knowledge he had just received.

But Nemo—the part of him that moved, the part driven by gnawing hunger—was already climbing, quicker than before, almost sprinting up the fleshy branches like a desperate animal.

Only a second had passed before an ear-piercing shriek shattered the still air.

"STOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"