Hate rises in me at the sight of the one which I once loved.  I feel it pervade me, infecting my being with a strength and compulsion I wish I could dismiss, I wish I could ignore.  It is not my strength, I try to convince my self; it isn�t my fault for feeling this way.  It is, and I know it, and denying it brings no solace as I rush closer to her lithe form. 

            I raise my claw and bring it down across her face, my claws slightly scratching her muzzle.  Her head twists violently and she winces as she collapses back into the corner.  The smack rings out, amplified by a sob of shock and pain.  She looks back at me with utter helplessness, pleading me, if not to stop, then for a reason.  I can�t even find one to give myself.  I can feel the hateful baring of teeth that has twisted my mouth so viciously. 

            When she sees that my hand is coming up again, she immediately throws her arms up in front of her face, knowing that that will only be less painful for a moment, not a real answer.  Please no, not again, don�t do it again, please, God, just stop it, for her sake. 

            No amount of begging and pleading, no amount of willpower, nothing can stop it.  The blades fall across her arm and rip two clean wounds that quickly fill and overflow.  For a split second, I can see two lines across ivory, then gone in a horrific flood.  If I was given a second body, one for my real mind, I would be vomiting my colon.  It felt like bile should be spewing out of my mouth, but the form I now have, the form I so longed to have, wouldn�t let me.  The face I so longed to see, I now wish would stay away from me, for her own protection. 

            In one deft motion, I pull my hand back up, throwing her hands above her head and tearing her chest open.  Inside, I was crying, hating every moment of what my hands were made to do.  Outside, the anger only rises as I watch her bruised face, streaked with tears.  Doesn�t she remember what she did to me?  The way she betrayed my trust?  She hurt me, and now it�s time for me to take what is rightfully mine:  her happiness. 

            It�s not true, I know deep down, but it doesn�t make a difference.  It�s just an excuse to hurt her.  Her whimpers ring in my ears and, in one way, rip me apart.  But in another, in the dominant that I have no control over, it just inflames my ferocity.  It just throws more gas on the fire.  I wonder for a moment, stupidly, that if she brightened up now, stopped crying, maybe this would finally end.  Stupid, stupid, stupid; it would just make me want to do whatever I needed to remedy her joy. 

            Now I�m starting to remember, and I know what comes next.  I slowly close the difference between my visceral grimace and her horrified whimpering.  My keenly focused eyes target in on her clenched eyelids, just inches away.  They�re trying to do what I wish I could do:  block out the pain, or at least dull it.  No doubt her ears are filled with the same dumb ringing as mine, blocking out the ripping and smacking and thudding. 

            Slowly, in a way that seems completely impossible to someone so enraged, I slide my claws into her abs, the flesh and fur offering no resistance, blood running down and staining from stomach to foot.  Just as always, I rip them out of her in a downswing, slicing through her pelvic bone and parts of her legs.  I wonder if it�s changed; I wonder if I�ve gotten better at coordinating my hands so that they work in sync with the other. 

            I lower my gaze to my hands and watch as the blood runs off like eggs on Teflon.  Back to her face.  It�s obvious that she�s losing consciousness.  Soon, she will be gone again, like she was when I so longed for her.  The difference is that now I know who she was, what she liked, where she went, and all of the other things people in love knew.  Then, I would have given anything to see her, even if it was just for a moment.  And what if the moment was in the last two minuets? 

            There is one last thing I know I must do before she goes out, one last blasphemy she must witness.  I grab one shoulder to steady her for the blow to come.  I draw my arm back and set up my claws for the attack.  With one swift, jack hammering motion, I reach into her chest and rip out her trembling heart.  The immense pain is immediately evident on her face.  Before her eyes I raise the organ, and on its final beat, rip it in two. 

            Her body slowly slides to the ground, the twisted expression frozen on her face.  Breathing heavily, I allow my hands to fall to my sides, but they fail to relent their wealth.  I can remember everything now.  Soon, I will eat her heart, I will savor her flesh and muscle and even her fur all the same.  I will gorge on her internal organs, lap up her blood.  I will pick her bones clean, then crack them open and suck out the marrow.  Lastly, I will eat even the bones, leaving naught a trace. 

            After that, I will finally regain control until I die again. 

            Here, the ground is not thirsty; here, the ground is like Teflon.  That�s why this isn�t real, even though it feels and looks and smells and sounds and tastes and almost is real.  But it�s not.  It�s here to punish me.  This world is devoid of all life, save me.  I will die of starvation soon, and then I will awaken once again to the inebriated, raging mind that I so loath with no recollection. 

Welcome to my Hell.