Badum. Badum. Badum.

The muscle is smooth and wet against his palm. He squeezes, and it spits black-red goo upon the ground. He grins because he likes the smell, metallic and sweaty. He puts the muscle to his mouth and touches it to his tongue. The taste is sweet and smooth. When he bites down, the tough, chewy meat slips easily down his gullet, and he releases a soft moan.

The beating starts to slow. He prefers the muscle while it’s freshly removed. It seems to throb even as sluices down his throat. It infuses him with life. Once this meal is over, it will fill him for a month.

In the morning, he forgets who he was and is horrified by the gored corpse laying next to him, nude and soaked in blood. He pretends it didn’t happen and does not wonder why he never feels hungry anymore.

Deny it though he may, when the next full moon comes, he will be drawn into the open again, to the beating of hearts.