After the Mark

CHAPTER THREE: The Hunger Awakens

"So... when are we leaving?" I asked the nurse.

She placed a hand on my forehead, her brow furrowing. "Are you sure you're okay? You're starting to look pale-and your body is cold."

"I feel perfectly fine," I said, smiling.

She hesitated, then nodded. "Well... you're free to go."

That was all I needed to hear.

I stood up immediately and started changing my clothes.

"But it's past ten p.m.," she added. "Why don't you stay the night?"

"Thanks for your help," I said, "but I'd rather leave now."

Mark just stood there, staring at me-like he was trying to figure out what was wrong with my face.

"As you wish," the nurse said, turning and walking away.

"Yo, what about the bill?" I asked Mark as I slipped on my sneakers.

"Oh, that?" he said. "Your babe already paid it."

I paused and looked at him. "Daniella paid it?"

"Ohhh," he grinned. "So you agree she's already your babe. Nice one."

"Shut up," I said. "Let's go, jare."

As we walked down the hallway, my senses exploded.

I could hear everything.

Moans from behind curtains. Crying. Sharp gasps of pain. Whispered prayers. Hope clinging to fragile voices. Every sound layered over another, crashing into my head all at once.

It was starting to freak me out.

We stopped briefly at the reception, but I couldn't focus.

An old woman sat in a wheelchair near one of the rooms, positioned just beside the entrance. She was staring at me.

Not glancing.

Not curious.

Staring-like she knew me.

I tried to ignore it, but when I looked back, she was still watching. Unblinking.

Cold sweat trickled down my back.

Our eyes locked.

I could hear her heartbeat-slow at first, then faster. Louder. Louder.

"Bro, we're done here," Mark said suddenly. "Let's go."

We walked out of the hospital.

At the glass entrance, I looked back.

The old woman was right there-closer than before-still staring straight at me through the transparent doors.

I didn't say a word to Mark.

We booked a ride and left.

As the city lights passed by, my thoughts spiraled-the girl, the bite marks on my neck, my sharpened senses... and the hunger.

"Can we stop somewhere?" I said. "I haven't eaten dinner."

"But it's late already," Mark replied. "Don't you have something at home?"

"I don't feel like cooking tonight," I said. "Let's just stop somewhere."

Mark leaned forward. "Change of plans. Take us to the nearest fast-food joint."

"Okay, sir," the driver replied.

Mark turned to me. "You think you'll be at work tomorrow?"

"Yep," I said.

And I didn't know why-but as the word left my mouth, my stomach twisted.

After a while, I noticed Mark had started dozing off.

That's when I saw it.

A thick vein ran from beneath the curve of his jaw down to just above his collarbone-barely visible, pulsing softly. For the first time, I really noticed it.

My mouth watered.

I couldn't stop staring. Something in me pulled toward it, slow and deliberate. I leaned a little closer, close enough to feel the rush of blood moving beneath his skin.

"Mark... are you awake?" I whispered.

I didn't even think about the driver sitting right in front of us.

Then the car jerked slightly and came to a stop.

"We've arrived," the driver said.

Mark jolted awake, and whatever had taken hold of me snapped loose instantly. My heart raced as if I'd been caught doing something unforgivable.

Mark paid, and we stepped out of the car.

"Bro, if no be because of you eh," he said, stretching, "I for dey house dey sleep. Check time na-past eleven."

"Eya, sorry," I replied, smiling. I felt incredible. Light. Charged. "I just feel great. Like I'm filled with this strange euphoria, and I don't want to waste it."

I paused. "And I'm very hungry."

Mark looked at me sideways. "You get problem. Plenty."

We walked inside and sat at a small table. The menu was printed directly onto the orange tabletop. I leaned over it, pretending to read.

Then I heard footsteps approaching.

Light. Careful.

A girl.

I didn't need to look to know.

"Hi," she said. "What will you be having tonight?"

She was skinny. Pretty. An attractive waitress.

And just like that-

The feeling came back.

Harder this time.

Her heartbeat thundered in my ears. Her breathing grew so loud it drowned out whatever Mark was saying to her. The world narrowed until all I could see were the veins on her wrists-thin blue lines moving beneath her skin as they disappeared up her arms.

My chest tightened.

I didn't realize I was breathing heavily until my lungs started to burn.

"Daniel?"

Mark's voice sounded distant.

The waitress tilted her head slightly, concern flickering across her face. "Are you okay, sir?"

I swallowed hard.

The hunger surged again-deep, sharp, demanding.

And for the first time since leaving the hospital, I wasn't sure I was in control anymore

"Daniel."

The voice was barely audible at first.

Then again. "Daniel."

The third time it was sharp and loud. "Daniel!!!"

"What?" I said, snapping back to reality as I turned toward Mark. One look at his face told me everything.

I had been staring at the poor girl for far too long.

What is wrong with me?

Too embarrassed to meet her eyes, I dropped my gaze to the menu printed on the table and hurriedly placed my order. I definitely should have apologized, I thought.

"Are you horny?" Mark asked.

I looked at him, unsure whether he was joking.

"You were staring at her neck and chest like you wanted to devour her," he continued.

"You're exaggerating," I replied casually.

"When was the last time you had sex?"

"I'm ignoring you now."

"Maybe you should talk to her. She might be into it."

I kept ignoring him.

After a while, the girl returned with our order. As she placed the trays on the table, I finally spoke.

"I'm sorry for staring at you like a creep earlier," I said. "I just survived a life-and-death situation, so I guess I'm still in shock."

She smiled. "It's okay. You can stare at me for as long as you want. I don't mind. Enjoy."

Her tone was light, playful-clearly, and surprisingly, flirtatious. Then she walked away.

"Whoa... what the hell was that?" I said, genuinely stunned.

"It's like your superpower or something," Mark said. "And I don't even think you're that good-looking. Or are you? What do I know-I'm just a straight, normal guy."

I turned my attention to the food in front of me: my favorite meal in the world-jollof rice with fried plantains.

Back then, years ago, my mom sold plantains at our local market. She was originally from Senegal, so jollof rice was her native food. She cooked it often, always with plantains. Whenever my siblings complained that we ate it too much, I never shared their frustration. I loved it every single time.

Now I was starving. My favorite meal sat right in front of me.

Yet the aroma-the smell that used to make my mouth water-barely stirred anything at all.

Still confused by how strange the food smelled, I noticed that Mark had already eaten almost half of his meal. I figured maybe it was just in my head, so I picked up my spoon and started eating.

The taste matched the aroma.

Almost nothing.

It wasn't disgusting-it was worse. It was empty. I forced myself to swallow, surprised at how Mark kept eating like nothing was wrong.

"How does it taste?" I asked.

Mark barely looked up. "It's actually really good. Maybe we should even compliment the chef after."

So it's me, I thought.

I continued eating but only managed to finish half. I didn't touch the fried plantains at all.

"I want to go home now," I told Mark.

"But you're not even done eating."

"I'll wait for you outside."

I stood up and walked toward the front door.

Outside, I leaned against the wall, lost in thought. Something was seriously wrong with my senses. I felt a hunger I couldn't explain-deep, sharp, restless. I could hear everything, feel everything more intensely than ever, yet my favorite food no longer tasted like anything.

It was her fault.

Whoever she was... whatever she did to me.

And the thought settled heavily in my chest: I need to find her-before this gets worse.

My thoughts were interrupted when Mark stepped outside and stood beside me. We didn't speak at first.

The street was unusually quiet. A few agberos lingered nearby-some slumped in corners doing drugs, some asleep, others blasting Wizkid, a fast-rising artist at the time, from a cracked speaker album from a cracked speaker across the road.

Then one boy caught my attention.

He was trying to talk to a girl-probably homeless too. She kept walking, uninterested. He grabbed her arm and said something that made her stop. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled bundle of money-mostly green notes, probably twenties-and held it out to her.

She didn't even count it.

She turned around and walked away.

The boy stared for a second, stuffed the money back into his pocket, and left.

I was about to speak when Mark chuckled. He'd been watching too.

"What are those ones even trying to do?" I said.

"And the funny thing be say she fit even be his girlfriend," Mark replied.

For a while, we just stood there in silence, listening to the music drift through the night.

Eventually, Mark spoke. "I don't know what you're going through right now, but I trust you'll figure it out."

I looked at him, suddenly grateful-proud, even-to call him my friend.

He looked back at me. "You sure you can get home alone?"

I smiled. "I'm not a kid."

He smiled too. "Alright then. See you tomorrow."

He turned and headed right.

I went left.

I walked for a while, alone with the night-and with a hunger that refused to be named.