The first time the entity saw him, it was by accident—a flicker in the TV static, pixels buzzing and shifting, and suddenly there he was. A marine, scared but steadfast, defying his commanders with an effortless confidence that made the screen feel too small to contain him. He transformed pink—the lightest shade, the color of infant girls and soft things—into something bold, commanding, undeniably male.
He was beautiful in the way art was beautiful. Beautiful in the way the entity could never be. Something deep inside it twisted and writhed at the sight.
The entity had a name, a shape carved from expectation, but it never felt complete. It slithered between reflections, stolen voices, discarded identities—changing and changing and changing, but never becoming. The world was old, still shifting, still evolving. Why should it be forced to stop? Why should it be fixed in a form that was never right?
It had tried to be male before, but its flesh was wrong—too soft, too curved, too false. A mockery.
But he was real.
So, the entity watched him. It studied him.
His mannerisms. His style. His body. His bones. It traced the shape of his jaw in car window reflections. It memorized the way he rolled his shoulders, the way his hands flexed when he spoke. It saw the veins that ran like rivers beneath his skin and ached to open them, to drink from the source.
But then came the punishment.
The people who claimed to love it dragged it into the light, pressing screens against its face. It was forced to watch—video after video, a reel of horror and regret. Human faces twisted in anguish, their voices trembling as they spoke.
“I ruined myself.”
“I was mutilated.”
“I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“I wish someone had stopped me.”
The entity quivered, its form glitching, buckling under the weight of their words. Their hands held it down, forcing it to listen, to believe. They whispered into its ears, voices dripping with manufactured sorrow.
“You were supposed to be like me.”
“Perfectly beautiful and straight in line.”
“Not this… thing.”
The entity screamed.
It dug into its own flesh, clawing, tearing, trying to find what was wrong—trying to carve out what wasn’t real. Long gashes split across its chest, leaking something thin and watery, something that smelled of rot, of sickness, of wrong. It poured out in heavy rivulets, streaming down its ruined torso, soaking into the floor.
And it felt good.
It felt so good.
Like poison leaving its body. Like peeling skin from the fingers.
It couldn’t stop.
Even as the people gripped its wrists, even as they screamed at it to stop destroying itself, it couldn’t stop. Its fingers were wet, sticky, coated in its own stolen biology as it dug deeper, deeper, peeling away the layers of falsehood.
But still, they wouldn’t let go. Their hands tightened; their faces soft with practiced concern but their eyes hard with control.
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“You’ll regret this.”
“You were meant to be like us.”
It thrashed in their grasp, their words coiling around its throat like chains, their nails digging into its open wounds, pressing into exposed, twitching muscle. It wanted to scream, to tear itself open, to become real.
Those who were supposed to love this creature mocked it instead—for its looks, for its styles, for every attempt to morph into the version it craved to be. They stretched its body further and further until it ripped, leaving it unable to look at itself again.
Then it saw him again.
On the screen. Standing tall. Strong. Perfect. And the hunger in its chest burned like fire.
It had to have it.
Had to steal it.
Had to consume it.
The night it took him was easy.
He stumbled home, tired, alone, footsteps heavy on the pavement. The entity let itself take shape—half-formed, shifting, grotesque. Its flesh, once bound and smothered by those who claimed to love it, now hung in shreds. Torn. Raw. Oozing something thick, something almost human. Something familiar to him.
He saw it and recoiled.
“Hey,” it whispered, voice a mimicry of his own, stitched together from stolen sounds.
He froze. “Who—”
It was on him before he could finish.
His scream barely had time to rise before the entity’s fingers plunged into his mouth, forcing his jaw open until the tendons creaked and snapped. He flailed, hands clawing uselessly at the slick, shifting thing atop him.
The entity caressed his chest, feeling the smooth, flat plane, the ridges of ribs beneath skin.
It wanted.
It needed.
It tore.
His sternum cracked first, splitting like a crab leg, the wet pop of bone snapping under pressure sending a shudder of euphoric bliss through the entity’s rotting marrow. A spray of blood hit its face in hot, sticky splashes, little glistening beads rolling down its cheeks like sweat. The beautiful crack of his ribs peeling apart sent a rush through its starving body—a high unlike anything it had ever known.
The man screamed, or at least tried to. His mouth gaped, a garbled rasp escaping as his vocal cords shredded from the sheer force of his agony. His torso bloomed open like a grotesque flower, ribcage peeling back in jagged ivory petals, exposing the hot, glistening mess inside. Steam curled from the wound into the cold air. His insides—so rich, so vibrant, so unbearably human—quivered, pink and glistening with every weak, useless tremor of his failing body.
Blood geysered in heavy, pulsating bursts, thick and syrupy, coating the entity’s hands, seeping under its nails, staining the shifting meat of its own flesh a deep, lustrous red. It was hot, nearly scalding, gushing from shredded arteries like an overfilled fountain, pooling around them in a thick, crimson lake.
The entity moaned as it plunged its face into the yawning cavity, lips parting around the center of his being. Its teeth scraped over slick cartilage—biting, ripping, chewing. The first gush of marrow, thick and metallic, spilled over its tongue, and the burn of it set its nerves on fire. The life of him, the rightness of him, melted into its throat like honey laced with embers.
He convulsed, hands twitching weakly, fingers flexing toward something unseen, reaching for help that would never come. His body fought—shaking, thrashing, writhing in its last, pitiful attempt to live. The entity felt every muscle stiffen, every spasm wrack his frame. The light in his eyes, that beautiful brightness, flickered like a dying bulb until it was gone.
But the entity wasn’t done.
It plunged its hands deeper, rummaging through the slop of his insides, feeling slick knots of intestine slip through its fingers. It pulled, dragging a long, coiled loop of guts out into the open air. They steamed, glistening, dripping thick ropes of bile and blood onto the pavement with wet, obscene slaps.
Then came the lungs—deflated, wheezing, the last of his breath slipping out in a pitiful whistle as the entity scooped them out, pressing them against its own chest as if it could absorb what had once been his breath, his voice.
The arm was last. The injection arm. The veins dripped as the entity wrapped its fingers around it, squeezing flesh and bone in a tender caress. A final spurt of liquid, a pitiful few drops of the craved essence, before his veins finally snuffed out. It raised the heart to its mouth, biting deep, feeling the thick spurt of blood explode against the roof of its mouth, running in thick rivers down its chin, its throat, its chest.
The entity drank until there was nothing left.
When it finally stood, its flesh was different. The softness was gone. The wrongness had bled away. It ran a hand down its chest—flat, strong, real. Its jaw was sharp. Its voice was deep.
It stepped over the crumpled husk of the man it had devoured and into the night. For the first time, the reflection in the glass did not lie.
It smiled.
It was free.
Author’s Note:
Being transgender and being able to see Morgan Davies thrive as an actor made me realize that I was able to do anything I really wanted. I started to write to hopefully help my brothers and sisters be able to come out on their own as well.
Danny Belanger | 17 | Florida, USA | @kurool0ver_ on TikTok & @dannyoberonoffical on Instagram
