The sensation always originated in his head like a fish hook pulling at his temple compelling him forward in search of a new victim. It didn’t feel all that different from hunger but nagged at him like an old addiction. Initially it was simple to ignore – find something, anything, and see it through – but eventually basic living and motions weren’t enough to reign in the cravings. The sensation would creep into his jaw all the way down to his chest…self-exile stopped being enough.
That was when the stimming would start. He would give up his self-imposed isolation, leaving his quaint burrow in lieu of the expansive tunnels and passages of Abanancie’s metropolitan, in search of external stimuli to distract him from his over impassioned callings – time outside himself and the patterns of his life. A trip to the bars; a visit to the dens….
But even those distractions had their limits in the end.
The sensation tore at his finger tips. His eyes burned and blurred, a single hue overtaking his sense. He began to have twitch fits, his mind a complete rend; one side calling for action, the other a self-loathing cyst.
“Skies! Len,” an old friend and owner of a den, “you look like shit…”
He would never truly be rid of it. It would never truly end. Even so he would never give in. They would not enslave him…
But maybe a little bump wouldn’t really hurt him in the end.
Daily Prompt: Simplicity