How Do You Do, Sire?

"Chicken... rice... meat... lettuce...fruits..." 

The words linger in my mind, floating like delicate wisps of thought, barely tethered to reality.

The scent is intoxicating. A blend of savory delight that fills the air, sweet and tempting, curling around me like an embrace. What a lovely dream, I think to myself. My mouth is watering.

Am I dreaming? Or is this some strange in-between? Because I feel the hunger gnawing at me, deeper than before, but it's not the kind of hunger I can satisfy with a simple thought. It clings to me—persistent, gnawing—and yet, here I am, drifting in this slow, unfeeling stupor. My body is too heavy. Too still.

This is how hungry I am as food is now haunting me even in my sleep.

How strange, I muse in the silence of my mind. Usually, when you dream of food, it's there before you. The taste, the texture, the joy of it all. It's only right, isn't it? A crime, almost, to dream of all the delicious food in the world and never taste it. Why not wake up? Open my eyes and reach for it, satisfy this gnawing need?

But I can't. I can't move. I can only inhale. I follow the scent instinctively, but my head is as heavy as stone, unwilling to respond. My body—my body—refuses to obey. It's like I've fallen into this trap, stuck between waking and sleeping, where I can't escape. Where I can only feel, but not act.

And yet, I continue to breathe in the scent, savoring it in a way that only makes my hunger grow.

I remember falling asleep on an empty stomach, hoping for rest, perhaps even hoping that my dreams would trick me into feeling full. But now, all I have is this hunger—an endless ache that refuses to be stilled by mere scents.

A voice.

It cuts through the thick, dreamlike fog around me. Deep. Detached. Distant.

"How tiresome."

The words scrape against my thoughts, like an echo in a vast, empty room. My brow furrows in response, though I can't even feel the muscles working. There's no emotion to stir. Only confusion.

Another voice, softer, more composed.

"Your Grace, it would be best to eat while the food is still warm."

A voice that seems to be spoken out of necessity. A voice with the weight of years of training, of etiquette. Of servitude.

Your Grace?

I would have laughed, if I could have. It feels absurd, like something plucked from an old tale. Those historical novels I used to write. A monarch in his court, surrounded by servants, listening to the clink of silverware and the soft rustle of silk. But here, in this quiet, the silence seems far too real. Too palpable. I'm floating in it, lost.

"Any change?" The voice asks again, with an almost imperceptible lilt of concern.

"No." The second voice answered. "The physician found no signs of improvement."

A long, weighted pause.

"And?"

"He instructed to continue the medication."

"Hmm." A soft hum of agreement.

The response is almost mechanical. Nothing but the sound of quiet commands, delivered without ceremony. No pity. No comfort. Just a nod. Then silence. The utensils resume their dance—clink, clink, pause—steady, unhurried. Unbothered by my growing frustration.

How strange… this dream is, but how fascinating.

And yet, it does nothing to ease the hunger that consumes me. I am fully conscious, aware, yet bound by some invisible force that refuses to let me move, let me act. I am both here and not here, stuck in the middle of everything.

I hear every sound in the room, like the world has slowed down just for me. Every bite, every chew, every swallow, amplified a thousand times, as if to taunt me. The rhythm of it—the unbroken pattern of him eating—becomes unbearable, mocking me with its effortless consumption.

I wish I could scream, or cry, or even—anything—but I can't. I am trapped. I want to eat, too!

A sigh. Internal, but somehow I can feel the weight of it press against my chest.

I remember the stories my grandparents used to tell, back when I was just a child.

"If you sleep on an empty stomach, your soul will leave your body to search for food. It will wander into the kitchen, lost and hungry, rummaging through the cabinets and the drawers. And if you're unlucky, you'll find yourself trapped in a refrigerator or a pot, unable to escape, unable to return. Forever searching."

I used to laugh it off as a silly old superstition. Ridiculous. There was no truth to it.

But now, in this strange, double-sleeping state of mine—where I am both awake and asleep at once, caught in the pull of both hunger and darkness—I can't help but wonder. Could there be something to it? Could my soul be wandering, searching for sustenance it can never find?

The thought lingers, as the dream deepens. The darkness pulls me in again, gently, slowly.

But this time, I tell myself—I must eat when I wake. Because when I do… I will devour it all.