Breathe. Die. Resurrect.
It was an endless cycle, a maddening, dull and constant cycle, a cycle with absolutely no end in sight.
Breathe. Die. Resurrect.
So constant was the cycle that sometimes, when the little girl managed to breathe a little longer, she would dully wonder when it would finally be time to die. She would play with the dried-out flower in her hands, its petals crinkled and curled inwards, and she would wish that the dying part of the phase would hurry up and arrive. And when it would, she would welcome it with open arms.
Breathe. Die. Resurrect.
The final tree fell to the ground, sending snow flying up from the ground in a muffled spray. The gentleman scientist bent down slowly to pick up the logs left over, ignoring the aches and soreness of his bones and muscles and the clawing, screaming hunger in his belly, before he heard the creaking and groaning of wood moving. He looked up to see the angry Treeguard towering over him, one massive arm-like branch already raised to swipe. He sighed. It was about time, anyway.
Breathe. Die. Resurrect.
The woman was breathing heavily, lungs dry and screaming for rest, legs screaming for rest, her entire body screaming for rest, but she would not rest. She could not rest. She was going to get away from the beasts chasing her, she was going to run away so far that she could not hear their howls and barks and snarls, so far away that she could not practically feel their hot breaths on her heels. But they were too close, too close for her liking, and so she pulled out her lighter to burn them to a crisp, but they were already on her and pinning her to the ground, ripping apart her limbs and tearing into her flesh, her muscle, her bone and innards. The firestarter took one final breath.
Breathe. Die. Resurrect.
The boy cried and wailed, his extra appendages twitching and curling with each wave of pain that shot up and down his little body. He tucked himself into a ball, squashed into a small little den in the gnarled roots of a birch tree, head ducked and arms flung around himself in a fetal position. He hugged his leg to himself, his broken, mangled, bloodied leg with bone as white as the birch tree's speckled bark bursting from his fur-covered shin. His sharp, jagged teeth chattered in the freezing rain that fell from the sky just to insult him and his fatal situation. The indigestible shuddered and screwed his eyes shut to the pain, the agony, the rain and the inevitable demise that he knew was to follow.
Breathe. Die. Resurrect.
It was a stupid idea and he knew it, but he could not resist his boiling blood and wild, uncontrollable instincts. A roar issued from his wide maw as he charged right at the spider queen, intent on tearing her apart and claiming his savage victory. He tried to resist. He tried to stop himself. But there was no stopping his lycanthropic form, and he bit down hard into the side of the massive arachnid. She shrieked in agony and writhed away from him, and in that split second he found himself swarmed with her minions. There was no stopping them, no matter how many he clawed or snipped cleanly in half with his massive, beaver-like front teeth. There were too many little teeth tearing into him, too many little legs crawling all over him, too many angry hisses pounding in his eardrums…
Breathe. Die. Resurrect.
Sometimes all of them, from the gentleman scientist to the firestarter, the Valkyrie to the mime, the strongman to the librarian, the indigestible to the bereaved, the lumberjack to the soulless automation, wondered why they even bothered anymore. What was the point of breathing if you were to die, the point of dying if you were to resurrect? To rinse, lather and repeat for the amusement of some madman magician who wielded dark power? To endlessly breathe the freezing, scorching air, die to the beasts and monsters and amalgams of various creatures, and be brought back from the only calm there was in this world? Some of them had given up. The strongman was no longer strong; the lumberjack had laid his axe to rest months ago. The Valkyrie fell silent, so sick was she of her own Nordic, vibrant act. Some of them merely continued to live. The mime gave up his act and learned how to build despite his small, frail form. The indigestible and bereaved did as much as they could, despite being children. The automation did absolutely nothing, which no one really minded; he was a frightening mechanical creation anyway.
Yet some of them continued to strive for the end goal of going home. The librarian read as much as she could, to glean as much possible information about the hell they lived in as possible. The gentleman scientist created devices and searched tirelessly for any means of escape, no matter what it meant. He made portals from collected pieces of odd machinery; he created a radio-like device to track down said pieces of machinery. He worked day in and day out, and little by little, when the hope of leaving this godforsaken land became stronger, the others gave in and helped too. And morale was high when their true adventure began.
However, as they progressed further, a discovery was made. There was a break in the cycle, a crack in the way of life that they were so used to now, the cycle that they would have loved to have snapped free from before now. As each died, there was no return. Horror began to take confidence's place as the survivors began to die off faster and faster.
Breathe. Die.
Breathe. Die.
Breathe. Die.
Only the gentleman scientist was left. Broken and exhausted and alone, he stared into the fire he had built himself in the world of utter Darkness. He could feel his inner workings slowing. He could feel his energy slowly draining from him. He could feel his life slipping out of his grasp. For the first time in what felt like hundreds of thousands of years, the gentleman scientist wished that resurrection was once again an option. And with that last thought in mind, he succumbed to the cold and hunger.
Breathe.
Die.
So how about that repetition, huh? Told you I'm good at repeating things over and over and freakin' over.
Anyway, what's sad about this is that it was honest-to-God inspired from some random words from what I think was either a Spanish or English assignment. Want to guess what those words were? Breathe. Die. Resurrect.
Wow. Who knew, right? All that aside, though, I'm glad that those words just clicked instantaneously in my mind as Don't Starve. I like writing for this game; you can do a lot with it.
Don't Starve and all it's characters (c) Klei Entertainment