Chapter Thirteen
The Blackness I
The Black Thing began to wake. It did not know for how long it had rested. It did not carry a sense of time to care. Time is meaningless to the Blackness. The only thing that holds any meaning is the thrill of revenge and the boiling heat of raging hate. These are the things the Blackness feeds on.
It had sedated itself by remembering its last meal. One that had been rich in pure disgust, uncontrollable hate and a climax in the taking of trembling life. It was especially beautiful because the life had been so innocent. The aura had not been tainted by violence. The unstoppable hate that drove the act only added to the delicious flavor.
The Blackness sensed a boiling of volatile emotions from its host. Much stronger than before. Indeed, the Blackness had chosen its host well. The host's hatred was continually growing. It stimulated the Thing's appetite, teasing with hate and a willingness to make others suffer. The Blackness couldn't resist. It bathed in the cruel beauty of it. Pure, unbiased hate. It was the Thing's only drug.
The Blackness wants more. One sensual gulp. To feed again.
It pushes, wanting more, but bars slam down. Chains wrapd around the Thing's influence, holding it back.
It snarls at the restraint with every fiber of its twisted form. A meal denied. A feeding lost. The joy of pain denied.
No, not denied. The hate is still there. Hot and boiling just like before. There is still a chance to feed.
But not now.
That is okay. The Blackness can wait. It has infinite patience.
For this would be a very good meal indeed.