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Abyssal agony.

Living with the gloom, he would always ask himself, “what did I do?” That was a question he would ask to anything but a living entity. Dolor had overtaken half of his being, the other half was filled to the core with utter effervescence. Someday, he would shed tears of joy, glide through the sky of an eternally irregular realm of the unknown landscape that belonged to only him. Other days, he would just question the meaning of why he would shed tears of utter despair, he personally believed that these were his moments of absolute clarity, he wanted to know why he felt as if he had lost something. He was clear about one thing, he was neither insane nor sane, he was something else entirely. He could relate with others at a deeply emotional level, but would also berate them internally for fruitlessly yearning for something they could never gain, or would never be able to get back again.

Greed, that was a concept unknown to him, or were his moments of “clarity” a sign of such greed? Time would tell, something that he had accumulated for himself and therefore would always have, so it was of no essence for him. Sustenance was an unnecessary function, but alas, he had to fulfill that one condition of his body, otherwise he would lose more than just the control of his limbic system. Lies were truth for him, and truth was broken, far from the lies told for someone’s sake. What were they? Just mere bones composed of fleshy wires? Were the humanoids just as systematic as the technology they were always fond of?

These queries befuddled him. On some days, he would reach out for the hand of something that could be best described as something he once had, but had lost it to a perpetual void. He would rummage through the ashes of what once gave someone happiness, retrieve items that one would kill for. Stare in the darkness of a room that was once bright.

Lighting up a lone candle in the dreary alleyway always caused the dark phantoms to swirl around, waiting to consume him the moment he lost his focus, but in the end, that was all they did, swarmed around him like flies. That perplexed him, why would ghastly ghouls from an unknown world avoid feasting on him?

From time to time, men would plead for their lives, cry for their blight, yearn for their flight to the light, but it would all be for vain, as the bloody spiral of abominations would drag them away. He was always the spectator, there was nothing else he could do. After all, even he knew that there must have been a time when the world was blustering with living entities. Gone were those days, gone was his happiness, gone was what made him alive. His heart was still beating, but alive? He had lost that inimitable status a long time ago.

But, something still made him move, was it hope? A glimmer of it perhaps, in a world filled with dread. Blood and bones were an everyday sight, shrill cries of the women had become an annoyance for him. The taste of blood he had become well acquainted with, being a scavenger was not exactly something he was cheerful about. He was essentially a vulture who waited for his turn, and when he was given the chance, he spared not a minute in leaping at it. Tearing through the wreckage, pieces of clothes, smashed bones, slashed ligaments, eviscerated torsos, bloody brains.

The first few days were a shock, but he was able to acquire a resistance to it the more he did it. The ghoulish abominations were more than happy to ignore him, perhaps they couldn’t find any enjoyment in his flesh, or was he just that insipid enough to have even the monsters reject their right to prey upon him? On good days, he would find houses with inhabitants in them, they would cook for him, give him souvenirs to accompany him in his never ending journey. The sight of their house as he left would always be in ruins, for the dark dreary entities from a phantasmagoric world would annihilate their only reality and bury them under the rubble of nothingness. On bad days, he would stumble upon thorns, they were always made of corpses, the ghostly apparitions made sure to lay traps for their soon to be victims, they were essentially hyenas, waiting to just jump the moment their trap was sprung.

It was a sight to behold, the way they tore open their prey, they would always wail, either in ecstasy or sheer agony. Albeit, the animalistic spectres still ignored him. For him, it was the same thing, scavenge and walk. The aimlessness of his life was baffling, yet he wallowed in it quite thoroughly. On normal days, he would be followed by the shadows of those who lost their living self, silently weeping at the sorrow of having lost the means to feel the warmness of touch.

Everything, absolute joy and the shattering anguish. He had experienced them all. Gloat upon the clouds and swallow down the clot, that was what he always thought of when thinking about the corpses, they were prideful for having survived for so long, yet they refused to swallow down the truth, something that eventually came to them even when they sat without doing a single action.

He was the clot that enshrined their dead bodies, he forced them into swallowing down himself, he made them accept the truth, that fate was something they could change, but were simply too deluded to even try doing that. And therefore, he caused their state of oblivion. Monsters and humans alike, they were but mere flies. He had become the horror that both would rather avoid. Corpses of the dead spectral abominations would always be dragged with him, humans served as either a delicacy or just something to pass time by. What was he? Was he just a solemn piece of a ragged cloth torn from its source? Or a stream of water that deviated from its destination? He always wondered about why his vision was continuously specked with droplets, as if the world was lamenting with despair, only to realize that they belonged to the hollow souls wandering with him, wailing for the arrival of their ultimate culmination.