Story One, Chapter Seven

Every day I wake, and every day I regret it. When I rise from the cold floor, I ache. There is no door, and I exit without pause. Then I search. Sometimes I find a rat, cold and shivering, with far too many limbs, but not a single functioning one. A piteous creature with patches of fur gone, writhing in pain. Emaciated yet bloated by starvation. Breakfast. Every day I tear off a head, and every day the blood pours into my mouth and runs down my face.