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In his soul lay such a hunger, it devoured all common sense and every train of thought that Cobain had, twisting and turning his mind until every route ended up at the same inevitable end. Where darkness was the king, and he twisted himself into every corner of existence, into every living soul, the trees and the air and the sun. In his mind he could feel it, eating at the pit of his stomach and forcing its way up his throat.
It was like a dance, a line of poetry, so vivid and clear, so ugly and vile.
This silence is killing him. He can feel his hunger pushing against him as if supplied with the strength of iron hands, even with the taste of his last kill still on his mouth. A blissful moment of satisfaction reaches him as he finds another taste of the crimson liquid under his tongue, before he falls back more into that rage filled spiteful state, hatred burning up within him for her, himself, every single one that has been damned into his species, and every one who has not had their soul's fate sealed. But as least the blood could temporally remove all the thoughts and burning hate for a few moments. It never lasted long enough though. The hell child always wanted more.