Fast Food
#9 of Little Nothings
Just got out of writing club, did this for a ten minute writing prompt. I liked it, quite a bit, so here it is, for your hungry eyes to feast upon.
A scurrying, the rustle of carapace against stone, a hand darting out in the darkness. Fingers closed upon nothing as that sound faded away in the distance, leaving that infernal silence again. Never quick enough, not as of late.
A voice, cracked, moaned out in despair from a throat that had gone too long without the touch of water. He didn't care much about the hunger anymore, it was always there, and no amount of whatever it was he had been eating would ever appease that hole in his gut that would never be filled.
It wasn't about satisfaction anymore. It was about living, making it to the next hour, the next day, or whenever he would make it out. Out, into the fresh air, into the sunlight. It had been so long, felt like months but probably wasn't more than a few weeks. He dreamt of the outside again, but lately he never made it out more than a few steps before the cool, clean air turned to water in his lungs and drowned him, before the sunlight burned him to a cinder and left his ash upon the ground.
Still, he longed to escape, even if only for that delirious end. He knew it was there, somewhere, and he would not stop crawling over frozen rock and shadows, not until he found it. That opening in the mountain side, that hole in the land that would never be filled.