Chapter 13: wife
The silence in Rasika’s bedroom was absolute and suffocating. She stood at the window, her hands pressed against the cool glass, feeling the frantic kicks within her. The memory of Sarika’s triumphant moans echoed in her skull, a vile soundtrack. She had miscalculated. The pregnancy was supposed to bind Prem, but it had handed Sarika an opportunity. She had become a spectator in her own domain.
A cold, analytical clarity settled over her. Fury was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She needed to re-establish possession. Not through guilt or argument, but through something Prem understood on a cellular level: raw, undeniable ownership.
She waited two days. Let the smugness settle on Sarika. Let Prem’s itch grow, unsatisfied by a single frantic fuck in a servant’s bed. On the third evening, as the sun bled orange over the jacaranda trees, she sent for him.
The note was simple, delivered by a meek housemaid: Jiju, I need you. The baby is restless. It misses you.
He arrived within the hour, his expression one of dutiful concern. He found her not in bed, but seated at her vanity, brushing her long, dark hair. She wore a deep crimson silk robe, loosely tied. It gaped open as she moved, revealing the full, heavy swell of her belly, the dark line running down its center, the ripe curves of her enlarged breasts pushing against the fabric.
“You called?” he asked, lingering in the doorway.
She met his eyes in the mirror. “Close the door.”
He did, leaning against it. “Are you unwell?”
“I am,” she said softly, setting the brush down. She turned on the stool to face him. The robe fell open further, exposing one thigh, the shadow between her legs. “I am sick with missing you.”
He shifted, his gaze traveling over her body. The pregnancy had transformed her, filled her out in ways that were both maternal and profoundly sexual. She saw the familiar hunger ignite in his eyes, banked but never extinguished.
“The doctor said…” he began, but his voice lacked conviction.
“The doctor is not a god,” Rasika interrupted, her voice a low purr. She stood slowly, letting the robe slip from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. She was naked, her body a landscape of fertile changes. Her belly was a taut, proud dome. Her breasts were full and heavy, veins faintly blue beneath the skin, nipples dark and broad. She saw his throat work as he swallowed.
“I am your saali,” she whispered, stepping toward him. “You planted this life in me.” She took his hand, guiding it to her stomach. The baby kicked, a hard flutter against his palm. He flinched, then splayed his fingers wide, awed. “Your son,” she breathed. “And my body… it is yours. Every part of it. The doctor does not own this.” She moved his hand lower, over the tight curve, down to the coarse, dark hair between her thighs. “You do.”
A groan escaped him. His other hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb rubbing roughly over her nipple. It peaked instantly, hard and sensitive.
“I saw you,” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. “With that little slut. Fucking her like a common whore.” There was no anger in her tone, only a dark, thrilling possession. “Did she scream for you? Did she tell you how big you feel?”
“Rasika…” he warned, but his fingers were digging into her hip.
“She doesn’t know,” Rasika hissed, grinding herself against the hard bulge in his trousers. “She doesn’t know how you like it. She doesn’t know you need to be told what a beast you are. A breeding stallion.” She unfastened his trousers, her movements swift and sure. His cock sprang out, thick and already weeping. She fisted it, leaning back to look him in the eye. “This is mine. You put your bastard in her bed, Jiju. But this cock belongs to my cunt. Say it.”
He was breathing heavily, his control unraveling. “Yours.”
“You’re going to fuck your pregnant saali,” she commanded, walking backward toward the massive bed, pulling him by his shaft. “You’re going to remind this bitch who owns you.” She lay back on the silk covers, her belly a magnificent hill between them. She spread her legs wide, one hand stroking herself, fingers sliding through the wetness already gathering there. “Look. It’s dripping for you. Always dripping for you. Even when you’re sticking it in cheap little holes downstairs.”
With a growl, he climbed over her, bracing himself on his elbows to avoid crushing her stomach. He notched his head at her entrance, thick and blunt. “Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his voice ragged.
“Fuck me, Jiju,” she snarled, wrapping her legs around his waist, her heels locking at the small of his back. “Breed me again. Fill me up. I want to feel you come so deep inside me your son tastes it.”
He drove into her. Her body, changed and swollen, was incredibly tight, a hot, slick vice gripping him. She cried out, a sharp, genuine sound of pleasure-pain, her head thrashing back. He set a brutal pace immediately, each thrust a claiming. Her pregnant belly jiggled with the force, a rhythm of its own. She met him thrust for thrust, her hips snapping up, her fingers clawing at the muscles of his back.
“Yes! That’s it! Just like that!” she screamed, her voice hoarse. “Fuck your bitch! Make her know her place!”
He was grunting, animalistic, his face buried in her neck. The room filled with the sound of flesh on flesh, wet slaps, and their ragged breath. Rasika’s moans were filthy, a continuous stream of obscene encouragement. “You feel so big… splitting me open… god, I can feel you in my womb… give it to me, you bastard, give me every fucking drop!”
She reached between them, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing frantic circles as he pistoned into her. The dual sensation—him stretching her deep, the rough friction on her sensitive bud—coiled a tension in her core, hot and urgent.
“I’m gonna come,” she gasped, her body tightening around him. “Make me come on your cock, Jiju. Make your saali scream!”
Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shuddering wave that made her back arch violently off the bed. Her inner muscles clenched and milked him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip. The intensity of it, magnified by the pregnancy hormones, stole her breath, leaving her gasping.
Her climax tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep drive that pressed his pelvis against hers, he shouted, a raw, wordless roar. He emptied into her, pulsing jet after jet deep inside her swollen body. He collapsed onto her, careful at the last second to shift his weight to his elbows, his face slick with sweat against her neck.
They lay there, joined, panting, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and her perfume. Rasika’s hands stroked his damp hair. She had won this round. The evidence was pooling inside her.
Downstairs, Sarika had been listening at the foot of the staircase. The rhythmic pounding from above had been unmistakable. So were the screams. Not her own desperate cries, but Rasika’s powerful, triumphant declarations. A corrosive mix of envy and defeat curdled in her stomach. She slunk back to her room, the memory of Prem’s temporary need feeling cheap and hollow.
The next morning, Prem visited Prema and his newborn son. He was tender, holding the baby with a clumsy reverence, complimenting Prema’s strength. He brought gifts: a gold rattle, silks for Prema. But his eyes were distant. When Shilpa entered with tea, his attention sharpened.
“How is my favorite saali today?” he asked, his voice warm.
Shilpa blushed, setting the tray down. “I am well, Jiju. And you? You look… tired.”
He laughed, a low rumble. “A man’s work is never done.” He watched her pour, the graceful slope of her neck, the way her blouse tightened across her chest as she leaned forward.
Prema watched this exchange from her bed, a cold stone in her heart. She saw the way Shilpa’s eyes flickered to him, a mix of fear and fascination. She saw the way Prem’s gaze lingered.
Later, as Prem prepared to leave, Shilpa walked him to the door. The main hall was empty, shaded and cool.
“Jiju,” Shilpa said softly, her hand brushing his arm. “I… I wanted to thank you again for the anklet. I wear it every day.” She lifted the edge of her sari slightly, the silver bells chiming softly.
He caught her hand. “It looks beautiful on you.” His thumb stroked her wrist. “You should have more beautiful things.”
“You are too generous,” she whispered, not pulling away.
“Generosity is a pleasure,” he said, his voice dropping. He stepped closer, the space between them vanishing. She could smell his cologne, the faint, masculine scent of him. Her breath hitched. “When a man sees a rare flower, he wants to… nurture it.”
His free hand came up, his knuckles brushing her cheek. Shilpa’s lips parted. A war waged in her eyes—the fear of her cousin sleeping upstairs, the lure of the power he represented, the sheer, terrifying magnetism of him.
“Prem?” Prema’s voice, weak but clear, called from the top of the stairs.
He dropped Shilpa’s hand as if burned, stepping back. Shilpa fled into the shadows of the hall, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Prem looked up at his wife, a ghost on the landing. “I’m leaving,” he said, his voice suddenly flat.
He walked out into the blinding sun, the taste of Rasika still on his tongue, the scent of jasmine from Shilpa’s hair in his nose, and the image of his wife’s sorrow-filled eyes seared into his mind. He lit a cigarette, the smoke a brief shield. He was a man pulled in three directions, and the threads were beginning to strain. In the quiet of the car, he realized none of them felt like home anymore. They felt like territories. And a king could never stop conquering.
The Jacaranda House felt different that evening, charged with a deliberate gravity. Prem had ordered the main hall prepared, summoning not just Rasika and Sarika, but also Prema—who arrived with the baby, swaddled and silent—and Shilpa, who hovered near her cousin with watchful eyes. The air smelled of sandalwood and expectation.
Prem stood before them, a glass of whiskey in hand, the patriarch holding court. He looked at Rasika, reclining on a divan with a protective hand on her belly, then at the other women arranged like satellites around him.
“This child,” he began, his voice carrying across the quiet room, “is a blessing. My blood.” He took a slow sip, letting his gaze sweep over them. “It reminds me of our duty. Our traditions.” He set the glass down with a soft click. “There is an old rule, forgotten by weak men. If a saali is unmarried, unprotected, it is the jiju’s duty to care for her. To provide. To secure her future.”
Rasika’s chin lifted, a faint smile on her lips. This was her formal coronation.
“If she is willing,” Prem continued, his eyes darkening, “the jiju must honor her. He must lie with her. He must plant his seed in her, so that his house may grow strong.” He looked directly at Prema as he said it, challenging the flinch he saw in her shoulders. “Rasika carries my child because of this duty. It is right. It is proper.”
A stunned silence followed, broken only by the baby’s soft gurgle. Sarika’s eyes burned with a desperate hope. Shilpa’s cheeks flushed, her fingers twisting the fabric of her sari. Prema looked at the floor, her face a mask of quiet devastation.
“It is a burden,” Prem finished, his voice dropping to a thick, intimate rumble, “I am ready to bear.”
The declaration hung in the perfumed air, a door flung open.
Two days later, the door admitted two more. Kamini and Mohini arrived at the main house bearing gifts for the new baby and professed concern for Prema. They were her distant cousins, twenty-four and twenty-three, with laughter like wind chimes and eyes that missed nothing. Their silks were a little too bright, their waists a little too cinched, their lips a little too red.
“We are here to help, Didi,” Kamini said, embracing Prema, her gaze already sweeping the spacious room.
“So kind,” Prema murmured, her intuition ringing a silent alarm.
They spent the afternoon fussing over the infant, their questions about Prem numerous and thinly veiled. “And Jiju? He must be so proud,” Mohini cooed, adjusting her dupatta to better display the curve of her breast. “So virile. A true man.”
That evening, Prem returned. Kamini and Mohini descended like exquisite predators. They served him food, their fingers brushing his. They laughed at his jokes, leaning close so he could smell the floral oil in their hair. They spoke of the gathering at the Jacaranda House, their knowledge of his proclaimed duty precise.
“Such a noble rule, Jiju,” Kamini sighed, refilling his glass, her hip nudging his arm. “To care for your saalis so… completely.”
“It must be difficult,” Mohini added from his other side, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, “to have so much responsibility. So many… needs to attend to.”
Their intent was a naked, shimmering thing. Prem felt his cock stir, thickening against the fabric of his trousers as they enveloped him in a cloud of perfume and implication. They were young, ripe, and offering themselves on the platter of his own justification.
Later, under the guise of fetching a forgotten shawl, he found Mohini alone in the dimly lit corridor outside his study. She turned, the fabric of her choli tight across her small, high breasts.
“Jiju,” she breathed, stepping into the circle of light from his doorway. “I feel a draft. This house is so big, so… empty sometimes.”
He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin was impossibly smooth. “Empty?”
“Not with you in it,” she whispered, her tongue wetting her lower lip. She moved his hand, placing it on the swell of her breast. Her nipple was a hard bead against his palm. “You spoke of duty, Jiju. Of caring for your saalis.” She rose on her toes, her mouth close to his ear. “I am unmarried. I am willing.”
His control frayed. He backed her into the shadowed alcove, his mouth crashing down on hers. She tasted of sugared tea and ambition. Her hands clawed at his back, pulling him against her. He grinded his erection into the softness of her stomach, his hand sliding under her skirt, fingers seeking the heat between her thighs. She was already wet, her panties soaked through.
“Fuck,” he groaned into her mouth, his fingers pushing the damp lace aside, finding her slick cunt. She moaned, grinding against his hand. “You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
“For you, Jiju,” she panted, her own hand fumbling for his belt. “Only for you. Give me your duty.”
The sound of a door closing upstairs—Prema’s door—was a bucket of cold water. He froze, his fingers still deep inside her, her lips swollen under his. The fantasy crumbled against the reality of his wife’s sorrow just a floor above. With a harsh, pained breath, he pulled his hand back, wiping her fluids on his trousers.
“Go,” he said, his voice rough. “Not here. Not tonight.”
Mohini stared, desire and shock warring on her face. “Jiju, please…”
“I said go.” The command was sharp, final. He straightened his clothes, the ache in his groin a brutal punishment. She fled, her disappointment a palpable chill in the hallway.
Kamini was no less persistent the next day, cornering him as he smoked in the courtyard. Her approach was bolder, her hand sliding directly to his crotch, gripping him through his trousers. “We heard you sent Mohini away,” she purred, her fingers squeezing. “I’m not so easily scared. This rule of yours… it’s for all saalis, yes?”
He removed her hand with more force than necessary. “It is. But this is not the time.”
“When?” she pressed, her eyes bright and hard. “When will it be time, Jiju? We are here. We are willing.” She leaned in, her breath hot on his neck. “My cunt is dripping just thinking about it. Thinking about you filling it.”
It took a monumental effort to step back, to call for his driver. He bundled them both back to their family home within the hour, their protestations echoing in his ears, the ghost of Mohini’s wetness still on his fingers.
That night, Prema found him brooding on the terrace. She stood beside him, the baby asleep in her arms. “Kamini and Mohini left so suddenly,” she said, her voice light, a fragile vessel holding a deeper meaning.
He grunted, not looking at her.
“They seemed… very taken with your interpretation of family duty.” She shifted the baby, her gaze on the dark garden. “At this rate, Jiju, soon ten saalis will land at our home, opening their legs, expecting you to take care of them.” It was said with the ghost of a smile, a performance of playfulness that didn’t reach her eyes.
Prem finally turned to her. The strain of the days, the relentless pull of so many hungers, the denial of the two ripe girls, coalesced into a dark, crude heat in his chest. He looked at his wife, the mother of his son, and saw another barrier, another mouth saying ‘no’.
He leaned close, his voice a low, lewd rumble that brooked no pretense. “Let them come.” His eyes were black in the moonlight. “I am ready for all of them.”
Prema said nothing. Her knuckles were bone-white where they clutched her sleeping son. The night air swallowed his words, leaving only the sound of crickets and the distant, lonely bark of a dog. She turned and walked back inside, each step measured and heavy on the cool stone. The distance between them was no longer just steps on a terrace; it was a canyon, and he was happily burning the only bridge.
Sleep didn’t come to her that night. She lay beside the cradle, listening to her son’s soft breaths, and the memory of Kamini’s bold hand on Prem’s thigh played behind her eyes on a cruel loop. The image of Rasika’s triumphant, pregnant body arching under him—the sounds she’d overheard days before—merged with Prem’s own vile promise. Let them come. I am ready for all of them. A numbness, colder and more final than anger, settled in her bones. By dawn, it had crystallized into a sharp, clear purpose.
She left the baby with a trusted, ancient nurse. She did not call for the car. She walked the dusty lanes to the Jacaranda House as the sun climbed, her simple cotton sari blending with the shadows. She did not knock. She pushed the heavy teak door open and entered the cool, perfumed gloom of the main hall.
Sarika, skulking near the staircase with a dusting cloth, froze. Prema’s gaze swept past her as if she were furniture. “Where is she?” Her voice was flat, devoid of its usual gentle music.
“Upstairs, Didi,” Sarika stammered, shrinking back. “Resting.”
Prema took the stairs, her bare feet silent on the polished wood. She found the door to Rasika’s bedroom ajar. Rasika was reclining on a mound of pillows, one hand resting on the dome of her stomach, the other holding a glass of sherbet. She looked like a queen receiving petitioners. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before sliding into a guarded, amused calm.
“Didi,” Rasika said, not moving. “What an unexpected surprise. No baby today?”
Prema closed the door behind her with a soft, definitive click. The room smelled of Rasika’s expensive perfume, of sugar, and underneath it all, the faint, metallic scent of sex. It made Prema’s stomach turn.
“Get out,” Prema said, her voice low.
Rasika raised a manicured brow. “This is my room.”
“I don’t care if it’s your fucking womb. Get out. I am speaking to you alone.” The obscenity, so foreign on Prema’s tongue, hung in the air like shattered glass.
Slowly, Rasika heaved herself up. She waved a dismissive hand at Sarika, who had crept up behind Prema, eager for drama. “Leave us.” Sarika slithered away, disappointment evident in her slouched shoulders.
When the door clicked shut again, Prema stood over Rasika. “You think you’ve won,” Prema said. It wasn’t a question.
“I have what I deserve,” Rasika corrected, sipping her sherbet. “A home. Security. His child.”
“You have a cage you decorated yourself.” Prema’s eyes were dry and burning. “You were my friend. You slept on a mat in my father’s house. You shared my food. My secrets.”
A flicker of something—shame, anger—crossed Rasika’s face before being submerged in practiced insolence. “And you shared your husband. Or should I say, you failed to keep him satisfied.”
The old, familiar wound opened. Prema leaned forward, bracing her hands on the arms of Rasika’s chair, caging her in. “No. Before that. Years ago. After we were first married. You asked me. You were my only friend, and you asked me what it was like… with him.” Prema’s voice dropped to a raw whisper. “And like a fool, I told you. I told you how he was. How he touched me. What he whispered. I trusted you.”
Rasika looked away, her jaw tightening. She set the glass down with a sharp click.
“You used it,” Prema hissed, the memory fueling her words. “You took that trust, that intimacy I shared with my husband, and you turned it into a weapon. You mimicked it. You rehearsed it. You used my own words, my own experiences, to seduce him.” A harsh, broken sound escaped her. “That was the betrayal. Not just taking him to your bed. Stealing the map of my marriage and using it to navigate your own fucking conquest.”
Rasika was silent for a long moment, her fingers tracing the intricate pattern on her belly. The smugness had evaporated, leaving behind something harder, more exposed. “Yes,” she finally said, the word quiet and blunt. “I did.”
Prema straightened, shocked by the admission.
Rasika looked up, her eyes meeting Prema’s directly. There was no apology there, only a weary, brutal honesty. “It was foolish of me. To ask. To make you describe it.” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Do you know why? Because hearing it… it ignited things. It wasn’t just about security, or a house, not at first. It was about that. The way you described his hands. The way he… owned you in that room.” She swallowed. “I lay awake on that thin mat, Didi, and I burned. I wanted to know what that kind of possession felt like. I wanted him to look at me with that same… hunger.”
She looked down at her own hands, now adorned with the rings he’d given her. “So I became an echo of you. I said the things you said he liked to hear. I moved how you said he liked. And it worked.” Her voice flattened. “But an echo is hollow. It has no substance of its own. Now I have this.” She gestured to the room, to her body. “And you have his name, his son, and his enduring resentment. We both lost.”
Prema stared at her, the anger draining away, replaced by a profound, sickening pity. Rasika had confided too much. In admitting her own pathetic, jealous origins, she had stripped herself of her power. She was just a woman in a borrowed persona, carrying a child for a man who saw them all as vessels.
“You’re right,” Prema said softly, turning to leave. “We did.”
She walked out of the room, down the stairs, past Sarika’s curious stare, and into the white heat of the day. The numbness was gone. In its place was a clear, cold understanding. She was alone. But she was also free—free of the illusion that any of this was about love, or even passion. It was about territory. And she had just surveyed hers.
At home, she took her son from the nurse’s arms. She held him close, his small head fitting perfectly under her chin. She would raise him. She would ensure he was nothing like his father.
Later that evening, Prem returned. He moved through the house like a storm cloud, smelling of whiskey and cigar smoke and a cheap, floral perfume she didn’t recognize. He went to the nursery first, as was now his habit, and stood over the sleeping child. Prema watched from the doorway.
“His name will be Vijay,” Prem said without turning around. “It means victory.”
Prema didn’t respond. She simply watched him, this man who collected women and children like trophies, who saw his own voraciousness as a form of duty. He turned and saw her standing there. Perhaps he saw the change in her eyes, the absence of the pleading, wounded look he was used to.
“Kamini and Mohini are gone,” he stated, as if reporting on the weather.
“I know.”
He walked toward her, stopping close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the other woman on his skin. “You went to see Rasika today.”
“I did.”
His eyes searched her face. “And?”
“And we understood each other.” Prema held his gaze, her voice even. “Finally.”
He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “You don’t understand, Prema.” His hand came up, not to caress her, but to grip her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated with drink and want. “This isn’t about understanding. It’s about need. My need.” He released her chin, his hand sliding down to cup her breast through the thin fabric of her sari blouse. His thumb rasped over her nipple. “You’re still my wife. This is still mine.”
Every instinct screamed to pull away, to slap him, to scream. But she had seen the battlefield now. She knew its rules. She stood perfectly still, her body rigid under his touch. “Is it?” she asked, her voice devoid of inflection. “Or is it just another thing you’re ready for?”
He smiled then, a cruel, captivating twist of his lips. He mistook her stillness for submission, her coldness for a challenge he could overcome. He backed her into the wall beside the nursery door, his body pinning hers. She could feel the hard line of his erection against her thigh.
“You’re still beautiful,” he muttered, his mouth descending on her neck, his teeth scraping her skin. “Even when you’re cold.”
His other hand tugged at the waist of her sari, his fingers fumbling for the tie. She didn’t help him. She didn’t fight him. She stared over his shoulder at the opposite wall, at a tiny crack in the plaster shaped like a tree. He got the knot loose, the fabric loosening. He pushed his hand inside, his rough palm sliding over her belly, still soft from the birth, down into the thatch of hair between her legs.
She was dry. Unresponsive.
He fingered her clumsily, trying to find a wetness that wasn’t there. “Come on,” he grunted against her neck, his breath hot. “You’re my wife.”
Prema closed her eyes. She thought of Vijay, sleeping peacefully a few feet away. She thought of Rasika’s hollow echo in her silk prison. She thought of the crack in the plaster, branching out like a lifeless tree.
His frustration mounted. He pulled his hand free, undid his own trousers. He spat into his palm, wetting himself, a crude, animal sound. He pushed her legs apart with his knee, yanked her underwear aside, and thrust into her.
It hurt. A dry, searing pain. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. He fucked her with short, angry jabs, his face buried in her shoulder. He was chasing his own release, using her body as a socket for his tension. There was no passion in it, only a bleak, mechanical transaction.
“You see?” he panted, his hips slamming against hers. “You’re mine. Say it.”
She remained silent. Her silence was the only weapon she had left.
It enraged him. He grabbed her hair, pulled her head back. “Say it!”
She opened her eyes and looked directly into his. Her gaze was empty, a still pond. He shuddered, a final, violent convulsion, and came inside her with a choked groan. He stayed there for a moment, slumped against her, his weight pressing her into the wall. Then he pulled out, tucked himself away, and adjusted his clothes without looking at her.
Her sari was loose, hanging off one shoulder. She made no move to fix it. He finally glanced at her, at her dishevelment, at the cold absence in her face. For a fleeting second, something like uncertainty flickered in his eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came.
“His name is Vijay,” he repeated, as if to cement his victory, and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Prema slowly pushed herself upright. She straightened her sari with trembling hands, retying the knot with a firm, deliberate tug. She walked into the nursery, where her son slept. She leaned over the crib, her tears finally falling, silent and hot, onto the blanket beside his perfect, sleeping face. They weren’t tears of sadness, but of a furious, grim resolution. She would survive this. She would make sure her son survived this. And she would never, ever be a willing echo again.
Down the hall, Prem poured himself another whiskey. The taste was ash in his mouth. The house, for all its occupants, felt profoundly empty. He thought of Rasika’s fiery need, of Sarika’s desperate greed, of the two ripe cousins and their bold, offering hands. He thought of his wife’s cold, motionless body against the wall. None of it filled the hollow space inside him. It only made it wider, a hungry void that demanded more, always more. He lit a cigar, the flame a tiny, solitary eye in the gathering dark.