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He was hungry, more hungry than he could bear.

Here, in the cold and deep water, the constant burning of his insides and the crushing and tearing of his body against its own weight was soothed to a point where he could rest, could be at peace.  He had been to the surface, and found it a place of noise and pain and madness.  Up there, everything hurt, but he could not die.  Down in the cold and dark, he could rest, he could be left alone, he could sleep away the rest of his miserable days.

But now, he was hungry.

Not hungry for meat or blood, though he had tried to slake his hunger by attacking the swimming things near the surface.  Even the bigger ones were too small to fill his gullet, and some had hard shells with no meat inside, filled instead with tiny two-legged creatures that screamed when they died.  There was no food in the world that could satisfy the hunger he felt.

Instead, the hunger was for something else, for more of the burning pain inside his gut.  He could sense other sources of it, like a trace of blood in the water, up towards the surface.  He wanted to ignore the scent, to retreat back to the depths and return to his sleep.  But the hunger was greater even than the burning, crushing pain of the surface.

He was compelled, forced by sheer instinct to hunt for the burning fuel to quench his hunger.  There was no room for other thoughts in the simple, primal mind that urged him onward.

He knew going to the surface again would be agony.  He knew it was infested with the little two-legged creatures and their sparkling noisy hives, full of things that burn and sting and choke the air.  He knew once he reached land, all would be madness and pain again.

He didn't care.  He was too hungry to care about anything.

The burning scent and maddening hunger propelled him forward, instinct driving him to follow old paths......

.....to swim towards familiar waters.......to the territory he had claimed as his own.