37. Offerings
Offerings
Starvation is slow, but I deserve it. I deserve to wake and sleep with every turn of the sun, to spend every waking hour thinking of what I have done.
I think back on my life, just as I am now.
I point out every wrong turn I made, every mistake. Over and over and over. I deserve this slow, endless march to the end.
Blood.
The soil is suddenly thick with it.
I am too weak to feed on the creatures of the dirt, but I am not too weak to open my mouth. This new blood is an endless river.
I try to close my mouth, to spit it out, to let myself die. I cannot.
The blood tastes of despair. There is so much of it, it will undo my decades of work. I sob as it slides down my parched throat, igniting like fire in my chest.
The blood is a sacrifice of suffering. It holds pain and fear. I cling to the first emotions, to the despair and the pain. I pull them close to me, take them in.
This is what my punishment demands.
To live longer, to suffer longer.
My traitorous throat swallows blood and dirt every time it is offered.
And it is offered many times.
My strength returns.
The blood stops.
I starve again.