rough rough

I turn and glare at the hateful noise behind me. That bellowing sniffing from lungs five times larger than my own. There he sites on atop a misshapen animal skin, towering above me, smiling with his flat pink devil mouth, amused by my frustration. I return by focus to my torment, a small bottom weighted sphere with a tiny portal that, on rare occasion, ejects infinitesimal parcels of hard refined food. It is delicious. Its smell beckons insanity. I am so hungry. Always hungry. I would eat and eat until I died. The stomach is never sated. When it rejects my gifts it is a mere suggestion to taste it once again. I desperately class at the small device. I twist it and turn it and nothing happens. I know some odd combination of an infinite number of movements triggers it, rewards are never grated for inaction. Pushing it along the ground, then picking it up and dropping it. The rigid surface never yielding. Indented and bruised by my abuse, scuffed and scared by teeth and nails. My desperate attempts all ending in disappointment; until suddenly, just as I near surrender, it drops a morsel. My pulse races, and leaping upon it, I swallow it whole, not pausing, desperately wanted another, I shake the ball. Nothing. I swat it, nothing. My arms growing weary after an hour of this game. Lying my smoldering body on the cool floor I clutch the ball close to me. If it leaves my sight he will take it from me, and merely laugh when I weep in desperate protest or attempt some futile retaliation. He is still sitting on his death throne, eyeing me precociously, plotting some new misdeed, some new means of torture. Having no words he would understand, I simply growl like a mere animal, and fall asleep.


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