SOUND OF HUNGER

META'S POV:

The air was fire in my throat, each gasp a raw scrape that did nothing to quell the burning in my chest. My sneakers, slick with morning dew, slid against tangled weeds, the damp earth trying to swallow me whole. I pumped my legs, the frantic, clumsy rhythm of a cornered animal.

"Get back here, you little rat!" a man's voice bellowed, closer than before.

Thief! The word wasn't just a shout; it was a brand they pressed into my skin with every chase. Last week it was Mrs. Gable's missing pie, the week before, a broken window I hadn't been near. They never needed proof. Just my face, my name. I could already hear their excuses, the casual shrug in their voices. "Well, you look the part. You know how that family is."

The injustice of it was a lead weight in my gut, heavier than the fear. It was the weight of their certainty, the sneering curl of their lips that made my own hands ball into fists, even as I ran for my life. Their footsteps were a drumbeat of thunder behind me, shaking the ground. It was the sound of grown-up fury, a storm about to break over a sapling.

A fleeting, stupid glance over my shoulder confirmed the horror. Three of them. Mr. Henderson from the market, his face purpled with rage. Two other men, their features twisted into a shared mask of righteous anger. Their shouts blurred into a single, guttural roar as my eyes flooded with hot, stinging tears. The world dissolved into a smeared canvas of grey and black.

Then, the world jerked to a stop.

A hand, thick with callouses, clamped down on my shoulder, the force of it spinning me around and throwing me off balance. Another hand seized my arm, twisting it up my back until a sickening pop echoed in my ear. Fingers tangled violently in my hair, yanking my head back.

"Got you," a voice hissed, thick with the stale smell of coffee and cigarettes.

My cheek scraped against the unforgiving ground, sharp pebbles digging into my skin. The bitter, metallic taste of dirt and blood filled my mouth. My thin jacket was useless as the first kick landed in my side, a dull, sickening thud that stole the air from my lungs and sent a shockwave of white-hot agony through me. I tried to gasp, to scream, but only a dry, rattling choke escaped.

"That's for my boy's window!" one of them grunted. Another kick slammed into my back.

I curled into a ball, my arms a flimsy shield over my head. It was useless. Their boots were everywhere.

"Think you can just take what you want?" Mr. Henderson sneered. The toe of his boot connected with my ribs. "This'll teach you a lesson."

A hot, coiling thing—pure, unadulterated hatred—burned brighter than the pain. It was a silent scream inside me, a curse for every one of them, for their smug faces and their easy lies. It was the only weapon I had left.

A sharper impact to the side of my head sent a kaleidoscope of stars exploding behind my eyelids. A high-pitched ringing drowned out their taunts. The world became a distant, rhythmic thudding against my bones. My body grew heavy, numb. I was just a thing on the ground now, a sack of bruised flesh. I couldn't move. I couldn't even form another curse.

There was only the crushing finality of the dirt against my cheek, the taste of my own blood, and the terrifying, silent abyss that rushed up to claim me.

Then, a loud, undeniable growl ripped through the oppressive silence, jarring me violently from the nightmare. It wasn't the sound of angry adults or my own ragged, choked breaths, but something entirely different, something almost... absurdly out of place, utterly mundane. A stomach. A very, very loud, very, very hungry stomach. "Glorp... glorp..." it echoed again, an almost comical accompaniment to my fading terror, undeniably real and very, very close.

I pushed myself up, shaking off the lingering chill of the dream. My cheek still throbbed. "What was that?" I grunted, my voice rougher than usual.

Thyme nervously lowered the book, clutching it to his chest. "Uh... nothing! Just... a noise. You know. Normal noise." He tried to look innocent, but his stomach rumbled again, a betraying growl that echoed his earlier performance. His face turned an even brighter shade of red.

I stared at him, this walking contradiction who, despite his apparent fragility and penchant for attracting mobs, had the loudest digestive system I'd ever encountered. It was frustratingly, impossibly... endearing. Or maybe just so jarringly normal it felt like a splash of cold water on my nightmare-addled brain.

"Trying to check if I'm sleeping?" I asked, a lazy smirk spreading across my lips. The mischievous glint, a rarity in my usually guarded eyes, was probably clear. He'd been hovering, that much was obvious.

"No! I was…" Thyme stammered, his face a contorted mess of panic and failed excuses.

"Stop making excuses. It's clear you're one of my admirers," I stated, the obnoxious certainty in my voice deliberate, an unshakeable arrogance I cultivated to keep people away. He glowered, his small frame bristling with indignation, clearly wanting to punch me but wisely assessing my physique. My smirk widened.

"I don't care what you think about me," he snapped, his frustration boiling over. "I'm tired of being misunderstood by a bastard like you!" He glared, then turned his back on me with as much dignity as his stomping feet would allow, marching back to the chair he'd been sitting in.

I let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed across the rooftop. "You are funny!" His outrage, his easily triggered indignation – it was genuinely amusing.

He stayed facing away, shoulders rigid. "I was just joking, you know. I know you're not my admirer… I don't think I have an admirer who has such a loud, rumbling stomach."

His shoulders stiffened even further. "I... it didn't happen! Stop saying nonsense!" he tried to deny, the words muffled, even as I knew the damning evidence had just vibrated through the very air we breathed. I just laughed harder.

"Stop laughing at me, you stupid giant gorilla!" The words, sharp and unexpected, flew from him. His hand immediately clamped over his mouth, as if he could stuff them back in. Shit! I watched him, expecting him to recoil further, maybe even apologize for the insult. Instead, he just stood there, looking like a caught mouse.

I tilted my head, my laughter finally subsiding into a low chuckle. "Okay, okay. I'll stop laughing at you, Snotty Kid."

Snotty Kid?! His jaw dropped. Heat rushed to his face. I could practically hear his internal meltdown, the frantic gears of his mind trying to process the indignity of being called a kid when he was clearly in university. But then, a flicker of self-preservation kicked in, and he wisely remained silent.

I swung my legs off the chair, sitting up. "I'm also hungry," I announced, as if it were a profound revelation, my stomach giving a less dramatic but still noticeable protest. "Do you want to join me?"

His brain sputtered. "Are you serious? Do you think I'm a kid who will join a stranger because they invited me to eat?" he shot back, pure reflex. The idea was clearly preposterous to him. A total stranger. A rude, arrogant, gorilla-like stranger.

"But I'll treat you anything you want," I added, a hint of a challenge in my eyes. I watched as the words "free meals," those universally beautiful words, visibly warred with his pride. His resolve wavered, a clear battle playing out on his expressive face. He was hesitant, battling his self-respect against his perpetually hungry stomach. This guy was annoying, beyond annoying, but… free food.

"Unless you'd rather keep listening to your stomach attempt a symphony," I deadpanned, already walking towards the rooftop exit. "Your choice."

He scrambled to his feet, a huge, relieved smile breaking across his face. "No, no! A treat sounds great! Anywhere with food, I'm not picky!" he chirped, quickly falling into step beside me. His initial embarrassment seemed to have vanished the moment "free food" entered the conversation. This kid's priorities were… interesting.

But it reminded me of the past. When I was eleven, I was so hungry I didn't have a penny to eat. I was sleeping in the park, trying to ignore my growling stomach, but someone passed by and left something beside me. I tried to ignore it, but my nose was captivated by the smell of fried chicken and sticky rice. I slowly opened my eyes, shocked to see a blue lunchbox beside me. I immediately stood, trying to look around for whoever gave that food, but no one was nearby who would give food to a stranger. Is this food poison? I was hesitant to open it, but when I did, I was surprised: the sticky rice was formed into a cute yellow cat. I could smell a hint of mango and turmeric in the sticky rice—was that what made it yellow? Its eyes were made from sticky rice dyed black. It was a cute sticky rice, but even if it was cute, it might be poison. Yet the smell was enticing, and the fried chicken was fried to a crisp. I might not die if I just taste it a little. I was stunned by how delicious and juicy the fried chicken was. I slowly ate it, waiting to see if I would be poisoned, but nothing happened. So I continued to savor it. And the sticky rice wasn't just sticky rice; it was mango sticky rice, but the mango was blended and cooked with the rice, making it more unique than other mango sticky rice. It had the smell of turmeric, but I couldn't taste any turmeric at all. This was the best food I had ever tasted in my life. Whoever made it, I was grateful to them. And I don't know why, but although this snotty kid doesn't look like me when I was young, he still reminds me of that past, and I want to treat him to food.

As we started down the stairs, Thyme was surprisingly… twitchy. His head swiveled from side to side, eyes darting, as if he expected a ninja ambush. He pulled me to a sudden halt on a landing, his hand clamping onto my arm. "Do you… do you notice everyone looking at us?" he whispered, his voice tight with genuine anxiety.

I glanced down the busy hallway below. A few heads did turn, the usual idle curiosity. But Thyme was practically vibrating with a tension I couldn't understand, a fear that felt completely out of place after the deliciousness of free food. My own mind was still battling the cold echoes of my dream, the familiar taste of defeat on my tongue. "Ignore it," I grunted, already moving again. "Who cares?" I was used to people looking. I was used to being the subject of speculation. My usual solution was simple: be so intimidating they look away. But Thyme's method—his frantic, exposed terror—seemed to attract attention like a moth to a flame. He was a walking beacon for the very thing he feared most, and for some reason, I was walking right beside him.