User:Priapus/Colglough

The Hunger

The creature does not know pain. Nor does it understand feelings of rage, offense, or morality. It has no preferences to how it exists. Actually, it has no feelings at all, just as it has no ethics or will. It knows only one thing now…the Hunger. And there is only one thing that will satisfy the Hunger. And so it must rise.

Although its eyes are sightless, it senses that which will end the Hunger is there, right in front of it. Perhaps it still possesses some rudimentary memory which causes attachment for the small grey-stone building. Perhaps it is not one of its old senses that it follows now, but something new. Something beyond the capacity of what it once was to understand. Yes. And it is this new sense that it follows now, with singular purpose.

Clawing…scratching… Wood splinters, cutting its hands, yet it does not feel anything. There is no pain now, only the sense of getting nearer to its goal. Finally, the obstacle falls away and it is there for the taking. Screams…blood…so much blood. And with it, the thing it seeks – its clawlike hands are overflowing with it. And as it feeds, its new senses hum. Yet there is no feeling of pleasure, nor even satisfaction. The Hunger does not end. And so it continues to feed…

…and then…

…suddenly…

With the push of a needle, everything changes. As the venom flows in, all strength flows out of the creature and it collapses to the ground in a heap. Then silence, which is abruptly interrupted with the sharp inhalation of a breath. A single breath…then breathing…then lungs overflowing with air. But something is wrong. This is not sweet, nourishing air. This air is poisoned. Brain buzzing, the creature, no… the man now…stands on wobbly legs. Pushing aside those that try to steady him, vague memories begin to flow in.

And with them comes the pain…

The pain is horrendous…more than can ever be imagined. More than can ever be endured. It penetrates his very soul, crushing him from the inside. Voices in the room are like needles in his rotted brain. The words are meant to be questioning, seeking, comforting, yet they only add to the relentless agony. Eyes bulging, he cannot think, only act. He lashes out, grabbing whatever he can to strike down those who are responsible for this excruciating pain. More screams, more blood, and they fall on him as one. His body is ripped asunder by gunfire, axes, knives. And he welcomes it, laughing at those that seek to now end the curse which they themselves bestowed upon him. He welcomes sweet death, knowing it is the only thing that will end the unbearable pain. His breathing weakens, hitches, stops. He falls to the bloody ground and knows no more…

…silence…

…sweet, blessed relief…

…until the Hunger begins anew…