Nights are cold here. They remove my ability to feel emotions, but not the chill of ice, the burning of fire, the tearing of flesh? (HURTS) Of course, that's exactly what they wanted. In a way, being outside is worse than being trapped inside. In my dark cell, I had no hope. But then, without hope, what can be crushed? Out here, freedom is right there, right in front of me. But I will always be a few inches too far from the breaking point, a few inches too close to my cursed creators. I don't know, I don't know how they did it, but I can never progress beyond my area without freezing in place. Hell can never be out of sight. If only I could overcome whatever barrier they forced inside me, then maybe-
Watching, waiting for trespassers. Each night, that is all I do. I patrol the forested factory grounds (exactly like they want me to), again and again until some velvet morning enters upon me, and they drag me within once again.
I spend my time in fear. Dreading that some curious, misguided soul will appear, but hoping, needing them to, to feed me. They don't feed me anymore, they want me to be like this and I DON'T WANT TO BE LIKE THIS-
There. Who is that? Please, don't come any closer. I won't be able to stop. Please. I'm hungry.
It will be like this forever. But thoughts leave my mind and greed takes its place. I can't stop feeding on this beautiful flesh.
Screeches soon followed. Upwards, falling downwards, he seemed to echo everywhere, and I could not find the true beginning to the sound. The thumps ended right above my rotten home, freezing me in my progress. Bits of gravel and paint fell from above at the contact, and I dare glance up. Strange. Usually, the sound of crunching, restless chewing, are heard as bones and flesh are gnawed on by whoever, blood drunk. (i'm so hungry)
But there is nothing but stillness, for a long while. I do not move. I am in no rush. But I do feel a palpable curiosity, an urgency to investigate. But I cannot let them find me. They have forgotten my existence. Although our lives are no such thing, a need for self-preservation forces itself upon us, and we cannot help but to defend it. Still I haul myself to my digits, and drag myself towards the gap in the wall. I am used to its jagged edges scraping my stomach and back, to the creation of indistinguishable scars endlessly cut upon themselves, and again now, as I crawl through. I can hear slow trickles of blood falling from me and echoing throughout the pipe. Close to the exit atop one of the numerous cavernous spaces that sit below the factory, I come across an old pile of bones. I nudge them. Gravity does its work, and I listen to them drop and scatter not far below me. It is safe enough to descend.
Spending your days in darkness is not good for anybody's sight, but it does not have much effect after your retinas have been pierced with needles and burnt with acid anyway. I still navigate well enough thanks to the body's numerous other senses, particularly through the underrated power of proprioception. Hauling myself upwards with my one working claw, I enter the façade once again. Colourful posters are but a blur as I follow a fresh tang of blood over pipes, broken glass, and occasional toy remnants.
I make out a large blur of blue, mixed with patches of red. I know this one, but I would rather not remember. You do not come across something of this size every year. Shallow, rapid breathing can be heard, but the smell of flesh emanates deliciously. I do not control myself. Forgive me, Scott, for I will sin once more. I go for the nearest appendage. I relish the taste, the feeling of emptiness becoming smaller even as food enters my throat. Momentary bliss, that welcome escape, is swiftly interrupted by the scream under my jaws. A red, bloodied mouth opens, revealing stained canines not dissimilar to my own. Blackened plastic eyes stare at me. I simply grip harder. He musters strength to rip himself away, but bloody cloth remains encased in my fangs.
The scream continues (has he lost even the ability to speak?), and he latches on to my antler, breaking off the old bone from my head. No food within there, unluckily for him, but I nevertheless attack back. Scratching with metal talons, grabbing at whatever food I can escape with while keeping my own organs inside my concavity.
Liver, pancreas, lung, kidney wires steel fur felt intestines bolts spleen bone
Eventually we separate, snarling. I scamper away with the remains I salvaged, hearing the faint sound of him clambering upwards, damaged and handless. Thanks to me. Pain envelops me once again. Blood cascades from my opened mouth. My shoulder and leg are missing some chunks. I regain less of myself every time.
Still hungry.
I was good once. They made me a fiend.
Spindly claws enter the spattered battlegrounds. Rusted metal shrieks as the figure moves. The ripe scents of 1170 and 1111. It clutches the curved bone left behind. Climbing upwards with ease, he follows his own prey.
