vercengetorix
They came yesterday morning for her things. I don't know who they are, I didn't even ask. Didn't seem like much point. People like them don't answer.
They just stare through their dark sunglasses with their nice, crisp suits and say, "Sir, please cooperate."
Rain came down on the sidewalk as they left. I hope they drown, the clean-cut bastards. I hope the streets become rivers thick with the taint of their toxic fucking aftershave.
"Bite," they told him. The saw started to cut before his teeth could clamp down on wood.
Soon there was fire in his mouth bubbling up and foaming, needing release. The saw tore.
It knew no mercy or compassion. With each motion, each terrible, tyrannical motion, it stripped connection away, leaving a butcher's signature across his thigh, and a quiet, ethereal phantom where his leg had once been.
The need was back. It was calling to me and throwing a temper tantrum in my skull, beating a staccato on my brain like a drummer on PCP. I couldn't go without it for much longer. I needed the rush, to feel it again