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A Penny Dreadful: Eat the rich

In the season of monsters, let's face one in writing.

4 mins read

You never really have anything until you go out and take it. All my life I had nothing until I decided I wanted something. No; I needed something. It was more a hunger, you see. Something that made my stomach clench and my teeth hurt from not having.

The thing is; people don’t like ambitious nobodies.

So, you have to be clever about your business. It turns out I have a particularly expensive taste, so I had to work my way into the right crowds. Most of my work was in the manor’s of small but wealthy families; those who didn’t see you as a person.

Windsor Manor was no different. They were a fine family with brazenly entitled egos, I don’t say that as a criticism. More in admiration, they had a reputation for breaking the rules. Living life like they were royalty with no consequences to face.

I was more than happy to work as their maid.

See, the rich only ever see those below them as lazy. Either that or they ignore you completely; the latter worked fine for me. At first, they would fight against me, screaming ‘why me?’ or the absurdly obvious ‘please, don’t!’. Sometimes they’d bring their children into it as if that would stop me.

What they didn’t know is that innocent flesh tastes the best.

But I try not to eat children; they taste so bland. No sins to spice their blood and their flesh slips off the bone too easy. Adults are where the flavour is; especially the older generation. Cooked from a fine life of complaining and insulting everyone beneath them.

And that’s why I wanted the Windsor family. They were so spoiled that cracking open their chests was like splitting a pinata open. Instead of candy, guts spilled onto me like a grand feast. Nothing looks as perfect as crimson bleeding into the world.

Watching the realisation of what was to devour them gave me pleasure.

Their blood-curdling screams when I tore through their skin were like melodies. The cars they owned didn’t matter. The people they knew didn’t matter. They didn’t matter; neither did their money. Because money can’t save you from me; it’s what calls to me to you.

The blood of the rich is like a fine wine down my throat. A velvety flesh that screams privilege and fills me with power. I loved the way it dripped over my skin, like an expensive lotion to keep me young.

Unfortunately, I could never be them. Wendigos are born to feed on the flesh, and we’re not the tidy sort. I know a life of leisure and luxury would never await me. At least, not in the traditional sense. But I could eat like I were one of them.

Every time I tore their bleeding hearts out, the same song bellowed through my mind; “Eat the rich!”

Author: Iman Mackenzie

Comments editor and writer for Brig News.

Artist: Abi McDonald

Independent artist and illustrator for Brig News.

Deputy Editor of Brig Newspaper. Fourth year journalism and English student at the University of Stirling. Lover of covering social issues and creator of 'The Talk' column for everyone who needs to hear it.

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