Author's Notes
Has anyone ever experienced a "fullness" of the brain before? Is it just exhaustion? Either way, it's very unpleasant.
Starvation
WARNING: Gore, Self-Cannibalism and Brief Mentions of Sexual Content
My medications are heavy. To name a few: Halcion, Remeron, Zoloft, and Percocet; not to mention the occasional Advil. And who could forget alcohol? (Preferably a hard whiskey or a greatly-aged tall glass of red wine). Though it may not be classified as society's "drug," I treat it all the same.
Lately, I've been waking up every few hours during the night and no, not due to anything external. No sounds, no lights, and definitely not because my bed is giving me grave discomfort. I paid a wealthy amount of money for this mattress and was promised that I would be "sleeping in the heavens." That never fails to crack me up. No, this restlessness was internal. Booming headaches, pained muscles, and oddly something I can only describe as a "full mind." A sensation that breeds the strangest confusion. It feels as if my mind is constantly busy and yet the irony is that it's completely empty. I know I sound like I'm a madman, but I can assure you I'm not. I happen to enjoy art and lead a healthy lifestyle. I work in a traveling theatre and I am paid quite handsomely.
The next thing I know, I am grabbing my head with both hands and I am putting immense pressure on my temples. You see, like the smart man I am, I try condensing all this information, pressing it together in hopes to make room for some clear thinking. But alas, much to my avail, it wouldn't stop. My mind was continuing to run a mile a minute. At this point, I find myself aggressively hitting my head against the wall. The pain did not measure to the erratic buzzing of my brain. I wanted more than anything for it to stop. Perhaps If I let some of this information leak out, only then would I be free from this torment. Harder and harder my skull hits the already denting wall until it opens with a satisfying crack much like an egg. My soupy mind starts to drain from my head, spilling out on my floor. Hardwood. Very expensive. I pick the brain matter up in my hands and squish it between my fingers. My memories, dreams, intelligence, passion, all bleeding out from within my intense grasp. A clear mind is all I want. Let it drain. I am playing with who I am; who I once was. My carcass of bones, brain tissue, blood, and veins stains my hands. The smell is nothing more than revolting. Ironically, I'm salivating.
I haven't eaten in days. My stomach is begging me with its ever obnoxious groans. Did you know it is estimated that a person dies every ten seconds from starvation? My hands reach my mouth at an almost alarming rate. The control I once had is gone. My hands are stuffing my face. My jaw is chewing on its own. My throat swallows chunks of me. I am devouring myself. Progressively, I begin to feel nothing. Ringing fills my ears. The taste of rich iron seems to leave my pallet and my body gives in to what humanity deems as 'death.'
But humanity is wrong.
I did not die. No, what happened to me was far from the end of my life.
My eyes opened to the sun that morning. My limbs cracked during my first early stretches and my heart continued to pump an overwhelming amount of passion through my veins. My hand makes its way up to my mouth to cover an eager escaping yawn. Before that very hand returns to my cock, it wipes a large smear of blood from my bottom lip.