It's that one. It is full and alive, and it moves you. Before you were standing still, but now you're everchanging. It hurts and empties, but it also completes you in a way you've never felt before. When it's done it leaves you. It leaves, and you are no longer what you were. You're full with everything new, but you're also more empty now that it's gone. It never goes away. You might learn to ignore it or to consume placeholders to stop the vacant feeling it has left. But occasionally. That hollow will eat you from the inside out until there is almost nothing left. There is nothing quite like that summer. Nothing can ever feed that desire it gave you for life and for movement.

The world is violently dark right up until the moment it glimpses the paper boat in its mindless slumber. Eyes snap open, and there the boat materializes in front of it, along with a small, ghostly arm wrapped in a yellow rain-slicker and the cacophonous sound of the flood pouring through the grate. It smells the fear shivering off the boy’s chilled skin and raised nerve endings. Tongue slides across sharpened teeth. Even the bicuspids, razor sharp. White gloved hands pluck the paper from the gush of the drain. And the child’s fear hangs fragrantly as it offers up the boat. The hesitation is palpable and mouth-watering. It’s salivating as a smile plays across the red stained mouth. Oil crayon smeared with years of the caked on blood of terror. The boy pulls back, and it realizes it may have come on too strong. It may need to play the tortoise rather than the hare. Its eyes flicker with the realization and the desperation to hide the uncontrollable need to feast. Fangs like porcelain shards drip with the urgent need to devour and defile. To desecrate and tear. Perhaps something shiny to sweeten the deal? And a red balloon floats into the scene. Then green, yellow, and blue follow. And the small face is entertained just enough to drop his guard. The small fingers reach back in, and before they can retreat it seizes its moment. Jaws lined by fanged, yellowing smile crush through tissue and bone. The screams are a storm of trepidation. Blood coming so fast that it is black until it hits the now red torrent cascading into the gutter. And the horror and insanity fills it not quite but almost to the bursting. The only thing strong enough to fill it, the greatness of fear. And just before it is satiated, the boy bleeds out. His heart stops, and it is almost full. Almost. But the boy gave up too soon. The boy is drained before it can gorge on enough terror to drench its gluttonous palate. His lungs and heart unable to pump oxygen through his tiny frame. It discards the debris of now rotting flesh, letting it float up and out of its storm-drain home. And it can almost taste its next victim. It can almost feel its heart fill up with horror and fright as it drifts back into contented sleep.

Stephen King - obviously not his style, but playing in his world

Her, lain slain.

Her, with silver pouring from her veins.

Diced.

Sliced.

Constrained.

Her, somehow picturesque restless,

though, this infinite sleep she does not feign.

Lungs, breathless.

Water, surrounding.

Porcelain, stained.

Eyes, vacant yet arcane.

Sound, unresounding.

Heart, not responding.

Skin, wet just like the rain.

“I’ve never seen you scared…”

I thought that that explosion of light would be the last before everything winked out. And I thought that it would all wink out with you right next to me. I thought that that was the end. Not of me and you, but of everything. In a way it was. Or maybe it was the end of nothing. I don’t have an answer, so I lift my chin at you and narrow my eyes, smirking softly. I don’t know when I figured it out, but I know it makes you crazy. Not that that matters. You’re already excited. I can feel it. I can taste it. I’m breathing it in. You’ve never seen me scared, but I’ve never seen you so excited. Your eyes give me a once over, smiling like you’ve accomplished something impossible. Like that moment I held on to you a little tighter, the moment the lights sped by too fast and I thought that it was the end, ignited something you’d been waiting to set ablaze. You tip your head back then shake it in disbelief.

“Oh my god. I fucking love it.”

There’s bugs.

There’s no bugs.

Yes, there are. There’s so many that I can’t breathe. They’re in my chest. Under my skin. They got in through my ribs.

There are no bugs. You can breathe. You’re talking to me.

…

What are you thinking?

I still can’t breathe.

Yes. You’re talking, remember?

Yeah, but I’m not breathing. I’m crying.

Just go to sleep. The bugs will go away.

It’s too bright.

It’s not. It’s dark.

What if they are bugs, though? What if that’s what’s inside? I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? What if there really are bugs?!

Are you there?

Wake up!

Please?! There’s so many bugs…please, I can’t breathe. I can’t…

There are times that this scar on my knee makes every bone in my body ache. It is arthritis to the mind. It is an infinite suggestion of the moments I once lived. There are times that I remember where it came from, and I think my heart will break through my chest as it’s beats race my mind’s buzzing. That I fear that I might never forget the feeling of the cold winter air cooling down the car that we just filled with heat. That I can feel speakers pounding a deep beat against my body as I am pressed too close to this confined space. Too close to you. The only place to hide. Too close to you. That I can hear us both laughing and struggling to unlock the door as the search lights beam down into the front glass. There are times that this scar on my knee makes me terrified that I will never live another adventure as lively as you. That I will never whisper deep into the night or smell the evening fragrantly hanging on to my hair. There are times that I am content with the reminder of whirlwind nights. And there are times that I wish it would have disappeared right along with you.