[hider=Never stops does it v2][i][colour=9e0b0f]Flex.[/colour][/i]

[color=00a99d]"No!"[/color]

Exhaustion. I can see the light creeping on, one moment at a time, from day into night and night into day, again, and again, and again, and again. The bitter moons tug the tides with fleeting and jittery pinches. Mocking me. Sand sifts away from where I hauled it. Each wave pulls me with it, up and down, a sick, limp sack of fluid.

There is a kind of disgusting interplay between my substance and that of the ocean. The pain does not disturb me on its spiny drift through cycles of localised cuts and aches, but the horror is a thing all its own. To feel oneself melting into the water and become slime. A stringy, oily mess with no surface. With each slice of torture, a brittle black flake begins to swim in me, and I can feel it move. I can watch it and I do, obsessively. The more I watch the fragile crystal platelets shatter and grow, the deeper I am incited to nausea. This is not my body. [i]This is not who I am.[/i]

[color=9e0b0f][i]Flex.[/i][/color]

[color=00a99d]"Never!"[/color]

[color=9e0b0f][i]You are growing into your final shape and need space. Flex.[/i][/color]

[colour=00a99d]"Shrivel up and die!"[/colour]

[color=9e0b0f][i]Sure. But first, flex.[/i][/color]

Something is dripping inside me, a feeble flow. I am being distilled. Colours are separating into the watery gunk as it bleeds out of me. They form a set of layers that slide over one another in eddies. A false skin, a membrane sticking to me. Sticking to me as the sea is peeled off my flesh. And the steam billows on.

I'm curled as tightly as I can, to try and hide as much of myself from the metamorphosis as I can, but now I give a reflexive convulsion before I return to fetal position.

[color=9e0b0f][i]Flex?[/i][/color]

[color=00a99d]"Silence!"[/color]

[color=9e0b0f][i]No. Flex.[/i][/color]

I try to breach the surface to form a mouth and shout, but I cannot. I am already melded with the formless entombment and it bends around me. But I do not give in. Noble even in death, I do not surrender.

Rather than watch myself be destroyed beyond imagining, I dig myself into myself and try to pull, to rip, to swell and burst. I can feel my strength but it does nothing for me. When I try to perform even the slightest stretch, the motion stirs a flurry of new precipitates into my body. The meniscus, the [i]skin[/i], expands to accommodate my motion and I cannot contract it back into my previous shape. I no longer bend in the ways that would be right for suicide. The disease has slit my hamstrings.

[color=00a99d]"Just let me die, Yivvin!"[/color]

[color=9e0b0f][i]Can't.[/i][/color]

[color=00a99d]"KILL ME!"[/color]

[color=9e0b0f][i]Flex, Flux.[/i][/color]
[/hider]