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A sequel to Grinder. --- my hands glide down her thighs and i feel her caress as she rubs her hands up and down my back i feel an explosion of guilt and fear and lust and rage but her touch makes it all go away she is an endless void of everything the more i feel her the less i feel myself i bury my face into her neck to stop it all from slipping away find you taste you fuck you use you break you you will take me scar me hate me erase me kill me kill me kill me kill me killme killme killkillkillkillkillkillkill help me i am in hell i break myself out of her embrace i wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze she croaks out a moan she brushes a hand across my face softly and i feel my grip loosen i feel the void calling me and i squeeze harder harder harder. Harder. She scrapes bloody trails down my face and neck and chest with her nails but I ignore it all. I keep squeezing until I feel her throat collapse against my grip and she tries to scream then. No sound escapes her but a wispy breath and as that last breath leaves her lips, I find my body racked with sobs. Tears drip from my eyes onto her face. I press my lips against hers, expecting her to kiss me back. She remains still. I close my eyes. When I open my eyes again, I find myself submerged in a pool of motor oil and afterbirth, swimming to try and escape from this black sea that I was coerced into. The tar seeps into my mouth as I gasp for a breath that won't come. Reach the surface. Get out of this ocean of decay. The way out is through. The darkness of the oil and blood gives way to a blinding light as I emerge from the sea and collapse on the ground. I wipe the liquid from my eyes and blink rapidly, trying to make out where I am. What I see is a jungle invading a factory, broken machines overtaken by vines and moss with sunlight creeping in through shattered windows and missing chunks in the roof. I'm still in the factory. How long was I out? A breeze blows past and I shiver as I feel the cool wind on my bare skin. A few feet ahead of me I see a pile of torn up clothes. My clothes. I reach out to grab them and put them on to block the breeze, only to freeze when I see my arm. Where once there was flesh, there is now rusted metal and exposed wiring. What happened to my arm? My other arm is still flesh, still human. I caress my face with it, trying to feel what is still living. Jawbone. Boney cheek. Squishy eye. Fleshy nose. Metal eye. Metal cheek. Metal jaw. What the hell happened to me? I close my eyes. Please just be a dream. I open my eyes and the metal remains. I flex my metallic fingers and feel nothing despite the movement. It isn't a dream. Oh God, what am I? What the hell did this to me? Was it that thing that the old drunkard warned me about? It attacked me and I became... This? This can't be happening. Why would it do this? What would it have to gain from turning me into a broken down machine? I'm a freak and it's all that thing's fault. Flesh still remains but for how long? Maybe that will bake under the sun and rot off of me. Chunks of grotesque meat peeling back to reveal more mechanical insides until nothing remains but the machine. No. I won't let it take me over. I am still alive. I grab the rags and slip myself into them, trying to get into something resembling a decent state. My revolver is nearby and I pick it up. Rust has started to encroach on the frame, but with a quick pull of the trigger aimed at the window I find that it's still in working order. I stick the gun into my jacket's one good pocket. I start walking, trying to find my way out of the factory. I should never have come here to begin with. This whole ordeal has taken everything from me. Everything but my will to keep going. I have to keep going. Minutes later and I'm standing before the double doors that lead out of the factory, a shaky hand trying and failing to reach out and push them open. I'm scared of leaving, terrified of how the outside world will see me. Maybe I can disguise myself, hide this... Corruption that's taken a hold on me. As I scan the room, I see the old drunkard's pile of cardboard and rags pressed up against the wall. Hesitantly, I walk forward, expecting him to slowly rise from his abode like he did only a few... However long ago it was. But when I reach out a hand and touch it, nothing happens. I slowly lift up the cardboard and beneath it, I see a rotten skeleton, so decayed that there isn't even a smell anymore. A small reptile scrambles out of the eye socket and scurries away. Jesus, how long has it been? I spend some time scavenging through his things until I find a roll of bandages coated in grime. I wrap my face up in them, covering everything but my organic eye, then I use some more to wrap my metal hand up. Sticking what's left of the bandage roll in my pocket, I feel confident now that I just look like a normal disfigured guy instead of some metallic freak. I brace myself with a sigh, before pushing the doors open and stepping out of the factory. There's nothing but the forest trail that took me here ahead, covered in more overgrowth than I remember but still somewhat the same. That's the way out of here. Where should I go from here? It's been... A while judging by the drunkard's corpse. I think of my family. Would they even still be alive? Would they even care if I was still alive? I need to know the answers to these questions. I need to go back home. I am going home. Nothing can stop me now.

I've had this sitting in my archives for a few years now. Might as well post it. --- The Day The Whole World Went Away The rain slows, a torrent drifting away into a drizzle before ceasing altogether. Gradually, the trees recede around me as I step out into the field. I gaze around, then freeze in place at what I see: a soaked pile of rubble and charcoal. An icy claw digs its way into my stomach and rips everything open. I stumble forward into a sprint, blinking rapidly as I wrestle with reality. I try to make it right. I try to imagine that it's not real. There's a home here. There's a family here. There's a life here. There's my pops, out in the mushroom field, picking caps to help feed us. Mama's inside making supper, reheating last night's batch of mushroom soup, or what's left of it at least. She's shooing Remy away when he tries to get too close, but he's sticking his tongue out at her and clutching onto his toy boat. "We gotta find the secret treasure on Mushroom Island!" he says, and mama tries not to laugh at him. There's a home here and I left it. I left it to chase dreams of glory and what I got in return was steel. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Unloving. Pops said I'd be dead within the week, shot down by bandits or devoured by some beast. I think I would have preferred that. There was a girl here and I left her. A girl who smelled of fresh bread and had hair the color of the autumn leaves. My hands used to run through her hair, down to her shoulders, down to her sides, down to her hips. She didn't like it when I'd go further down. At least when we weren't behind closed doors. She's gone now. Same as pops. Same as mama. Same as Remy. I stumble and fall to my knees, sinking down into the ashes. My hands drop down to sift through the dirt but I can't feel anything. No sense of touch. My hands begin to dig through the soil, searching for anything that might have survived, any physical item I can latch onto. Something to give me hope. Something to help me deny the reality in front of me. All that's left are the ashes. No half burnt photograph. No scorched heirlooms. Not even a scrap of cloth or Remy's stupid boat. There was a home here. It's gone now.