Look. Above your head.

What do you see?

Cables and thick, red tubes. Wires twisted with ropes of tissue. Metal plates that swell and contract along with their sentient counterparts as they pump along whatever is keeping this thing alive.

You listen to it throb and creak and sigh.

It's desperate. It's dying. One day you'll be there to witness the end. But not here, not now.

There's a tunnel. Follow it. Tread carefully; you don't want to slip on the blood or fall between the cracks. Bright red flesh quivers beneath your feet. You stop. It's scared. You try to derive pleasure from this fact, but right now its fear only serves as a nuisance. You don't feel an obligation to comfort it, though. You keep moving.

Slowly, very slowly, you make your way past the different chambers. Remember to breathe - through your mouth, that is. Moisture clings to the nape of your neck. Keep to the walls if you have to, but be mindful of what you touch. It can be sensitive.

You reason that its metal components won't recognize you. You take a moment to rest, leaning against a metal wall. Your hand comes away sticky.

The tunnel slopes down. You don't remember this part; shouldn't the tunnel go up? Ah, but recall what happened a few days ago. Recall the rage. Recall the satisfaction that filled you as you ripped and shredded until it was beyond broken, beyond the hope that someday the disgusting tissue will stitch itself back together. Because of you, it will never be the same again. This is a testament to your power.

But even broken things can learn to adapt and rearrange themselves. So yes, the tunnel does go down, and yes, the flesh has finally been replaced with steel plates and cables, but that changes nothing. At least it's less revolting to look at. Parts of the tunnel are mangled, though there's a certain beauty to the way the metal glimmers and creaks as it works in tandem with the rest of the creature.

But you've become careless. Broken metal is sharp, or have you forgotten? The razor-thin edges sink into your hands and feet like a knife in butter. As if in a trance, you watch as rivulets of your blood flow along the floor before disappearing behind unseen fissures. The tunnel shudders in satisfaction.

For one glorious, fleeting moment, you imagine tearing it apart. This thing, the thing you've cultivated and invested in for so long...it doesn't deserve your kindness. How dare it feed on your misery, on your pain. Your eyes roam the growing darkness, contemplating the weapons you have at your disposal. But your usual string of slurs would be swallowed by its silence. Your fists feel small, weak. And no threat would be able to change the fact that you're completely at its mercy. Realizing this, your shield of superiority dissipates, leaving you vulnerable, naked. 

Unease coils within you. Your breaths become louder, more laboured. A roaring fills your ears. You need something in your hands, something to choke with your vocal chords, something to tear apart so you don't break yourself. But you grapple in the darkness, and there's nothing. All you can feel is the stickiness of blood against your skin. The roaring intensifies, but so does a steady throbbing that snaps your animal instincts awake.

Stumbling through the darkness, falling only to get up again, you run with no sense of direction. Footsteps pound against hollow metal as you search for the opening. You're too focused on escaping to notice the warning signs. The growing putrid odor. The parts of the floor that give way the moment you step on them. The bitter taste of shame in your mouth.

It's almost funny, the way things turn out. You pride yourself in knowing what sleeps in every corner of her heart. You enjoy hearing her sanity crack under the weight of your fist. But in the end, all you've crafted is your own prison.

That thought vanishes from your mind as you finally, finally reach the outside. Blinding white floods your vision. You drink in the sights, sounds and taste of freedom. Gradually the light fades and morphs into the familiar silhouettes of grass and brick and sky. Birds chirp, and insects buzz. A slight breeze carries away the lingering odor from before, and along with it the memories of some unpleasant experience. You're not sure what exactly. All that matters now is you are home. You are safe. Here, you are in charge.

Of course, you are not alone. In front of you is what you can control, and behind you is the little girl you hate as much as you love. Because in the end, when you've tucked her into bed before finally having time to yourself, she is the only light in your life. Only she can give you what you need. And despite the things she has done, despite whatever she may think of you, you will always call her yours.

Always.

Always.

Her heart still in your hand, you grip it like a vice until the world is bathed in red.

A lot of this inspiration came from Dead Sound's "Autodale" series, which can be found on Youtube. Specifically, I wanted to mimic Hive's narration, as I thought her voice had the right mixture of reassured, storyteller and a dash of disappointment/contempt.  I'll link to Dead Sound's Youtube channel here →

This piece is deeply personal. I'd love to hear your thoughts on how you interpreted the story, as I think it's the most open-ended (and strange) story I've ever written. And critique is welcome, too. I really want to make this story good.