It's been days since the screams chased you from your safe shelter. You know you can't go back. They aren't easily dissuaded by a simple lack or presence or scent for a few days. You may never be able to return to that tiny hole in the wall that you called safe.

The horn still sounds every day. You aren't sure if the crunching of the bones is truly louder each time or if that's just your imagination.

You haven't eaten in almost a week. It's time to return to the fields. Your stomach cheers at the thought. Your mind rebels. It tells you that you can't do this. Not again.

There's only one source for food that won't immediately drive you insane or poison you. The fields. The endless, nightmare fields.

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You hear the cries long before they come into view. Wails of children that will never grow, never reach adulthood.

Their eyes are open the whole time you harvest them. Their wails of neglect turn into crescendos of pain as you pluck them from the vines that grow them.

Your mind continues to tell you how wrong this is. You know that without them, you will die. Even this atrocity is not beyond you in a world gone mad. You roast each one over the fire, covering your ears and averting your eyes until their screams mercifully end.

You haven't eaten in almost a week. Each bite brings tears to your eyes for how delicious they are, and your heart mires you further and further into a hollow shell that might eventually accept this existence.

Until then the nightmares haunt you far beyond the screams or the gibbering mouths.

This is hell made flesh.

This is the end of humanity.

You know that you will eventually join the monsters that surround you every day.