The Echo Chamber
The sound came first.
A wet crunch.
Flesh tearing.
Then, the dull, hollow swallow that followed.
Blood spilled into the gray void—but it wasn't blood for long. It lost shape, lost weight, turning into a formless gel that thinned and vanished within seconds. It was as if the space itself refused to remember it.
Morgana sat motionless.
Her body was horrifyingly thin. Her ribcage pressed outward, bones forcing the skin to cling to them like stretched parchment. Her chest barely rose. Her face had collapsed into angles—cheekbones sharp, jaw pronounced, skin clinging to bone as if it no longer belonged there.
Her head was lowered.
Her mouth was pressed against her right forearm.
Her jaw moved in slow, brutal rotations. The joint stood out with every grind, every bite.
Blood smeared the lower half of her face.
She chewed.
A low, broken hum escaped her throat—pain and hunger tangled into something indistinguishable. Her hands trembled, but her grip did not loosen.
There were no tears in her eyes. Only a grim, malignant resolve.
She swallowed a chunk of her own flesh without hesitation.
I won't die… Not before I drag you into my hell.
Her breathing hitched as she pulled her mouth away.
Morgana stared at her arm.
Bone was visible now. White, slick, obscene beneath torn muscle.
"Damn it…" she muttered hoarsely. "I hope… this will keep me alive for a while."
The echoes were still there.
Screams folding over screams, ricocheting endlessly through the chamber. Once, they had driven her to madness. Now, they were just noise.
Then, her arm moved.
The torn flesh shuddered.
Morgana froze.
Before her eyes, muscle began to crawl back into place. But it wasn't a soothing sensation. It was a riot of biology.
It felt like hot, rusted needles were stitching her from the inside out. She watched, paralyzed, as tendons snapped like whips, lashing themselves to the bone with wet, sickening thwack sounds.
The marrow inside the exposed radius seemed to boil, forcing new calcium to erupt and seal the white gaps. It itched. A maddening, deep-tissue itch that felt like thousands of insects burrowing out of her skin.
She gasped, her back arching, not from salvation, but from the sheer violence of her own body refusing to die. Fibers twisted and pulled themselves together, wrapping around the exposed bone. Skin followed, sealing, smoothing, reclaiming what had been lost.
Her eyes widened in a daze.
Then, she gave a soft, terrifying laugh. A thin, cracked smile stretched across her skeletal face.
"…Who did this?"
She turned sharply, scanning the empty gray expanse.
"Who's there?!"
Silence was the answer.
The echoes faltered for a fraction of a second—just enough to be noticed.
Morgana closed her eyes, focusing. Listening past the screams. Past the noise.
Nothing.
Slowly, she dragged her hands over her body, feeling it—feeling herself.
"…After wishing for death…" she whispered. "Does this mean I can survive?"
The triumph was short-lived. A sudden, cavernous emptiness hollowed her out.
The regeneration had exacted a toll. Her stomach cramped, twisting into a tight, painful knot that eclipsed the agony of her arm mere seconds ago.
It demanded fuel. Immediately.
The logic crystallized in her fracturing mind with terrifying clarity. The void provided nothing. No water. No rats. No rot.
She was the only organic matter here. If she could heal... she was no longer just a prisoner. She was a self-sustaining loop of butchery.
Her vision blurred. Tears welled up as her lips trembled into a smile that bordered on hysteria.
"Dorvi…" she breathed. "That's you, isn't it?... You're coming for me... I can feel it."
Her voice broke.
"Dorvi, please… I missed you. I really did."
"Get me out of here."
She lowered her head, examining her ruined body again. The hunger was vibrating in her teeth now.
"I'm still alive, Dorvi," she said softly. "I'll wait... I'll never wish to die again. I promise."
"Take all the time you need."
Her smile steadied—fragile, but sincere.
"There's no rush. As long as we can get back together... you just take your time."
Her hands moved.
She grabbed her left breast—what remained of it—both hands straining to lift the slack, damaged flesh. Her fingers dug in, clumsy and weak.
She raised it toward her mouth.
Her jaw opened.
Saliva dripped.
She bit down hard on her nipple, pulling it taut, then swallowed hard.
There was no scream—only a sharp gasp as she tore away what was left in a single, brutal motion and swallowed it.
Blood ran.
Then vanished.
She kept chewing.
Kept eating.
And she smiled.
"I'll keep waiting for you…" she whispered.
"…Dorvi."