familiar hunger
part of my quiet beneath the surface mer!au
this is set post recovery. 0.7k words. i hope its okay, i've never done something like this before-
the hunger feels familiar.
too familiar.
that’s what scares the thresher shark hybrid most.
it sits low in her stomach, dull and persistent, the same ache she thought she’d left behind weeks ago.
she floats near the reef, watching fish dart through coral fingers, their movements too quick, too clean.
she moves.
too late.
the fish scatter, silver streaks vanishing into places she can’t reach in time. she stills, heart sinking as the water settles back into quiet.
her stomach twists, her injuries start to hurt.
and suddenly she isn’t here anymore.
she’s back in the days right after the injury. tail stiff and aching, strength leeched out of her. back when every hunt ended the same way: empty-handed, exhausted, pretending the hunger didn’t bother her.
she remembers floating alone then, counting breaths instead of meals.
it’s temporary, she’d told herself.
just until you heal.
now she’s healed. mostly.
and the ache is still there.
her chest tightens.
what if this is the loop?
she turns back toward the pod slowly, movements careful, controlled. johnny returns nearby with an easy catch, his speed softened but unmistakable. kyle follows, calm and efficient, prey caught in his strong grip.
she keeps her hands empty.
she drifts to the rocks in the den and curls in on herself the best she can, pressing her palm against her stomach as it growls faintly, traitorous.
the memory presses closer.
cold water. weak strokes. watching others eat while she rationed what little she had left.
you’re back there again, the thought whispers.
the water darkens beside her.
she stiffens, then recognizes the shape. simon.
the great white hybrid doesn’t crowd her. stops just far enough away that she doesn’t feel trapped, massive body angled outward, keeping watch even now.
“you didn’t hunt”, he says.
she exhales sharply. “i’m fine.”
it’s automatic. reflex.
simon doesn’t move.
“you didn’t eat”, he corrects.
she looks away, the rocks beside her suddenly becoming very interesting. “i will later.”
silence stretches. heavy, patient. the same kind of silence that waits out storms.
her voice cracks despite herself. “i just wasn’t hungry.”
simon shifts slightly, enough that she knows he’s watching her, not her hands, not her tail, but her face.
“that’s a lie”, he breathes quietly.
her fingers curl into the stone.
the memories surge again, the weakness, the waiting, the fear of never being useful again.
“i thought it was over”, she whispers before she can stop herself. “the empty days. the waiting. i thought once i healed, it would stop.”
her throat tightens.
“but it feels the same”, she admits. “like i’m right back there.”
simon’s jaw tightens, not with anger, but recognition.
“you’re not", he says.
she lets out a broken laugh. “it feels like i am.”
he reaches down, slow and deliberate, and places part of his own catch on the stone between them.
she recoils slightly. “simon- i can’t-”
"you can”. he says, firmer now. “and you will.”
she shakes her head, eyes burning. “i don’t want to be fed like i'm-"
“like you’re injured?” the great white finishes. “you are."
the words land gently. not cruel but honest.
“that doesn’t make you weak”, Simon continues. “it makes you alive.”
she swallows hard. “i hate feeling useless”, she whispers.
simon’s voice drops, rough but steady. “healing isn’t useless. it’s work you don’t see.”
he nudges the food closer with two fingers, reminding her of it's presence.
“you didn’t fail today", he says. “you tried with a body that’s still learning itself again.”
her stomach growls, loud enough this time that she can’t ignore it.
simon doesn’t comment.
just waits.
slowly, she reaches out and takes the food, hands trembling as she brings it closer.
the deep sitting ache doesn’t vanish instantly.
but as she eats, it loosens. just a little.
and for the first time since the memory surfaced, the water around her doesn’t feel like it’s dragging her backward.
it feels like it’s giving her time.
