All You Can Eat Part Four

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

All You Can Eat

Part Four

            The morning came with a cruel light, filtering through the gaps in the trees and slicing into his closed eyelids. He stirred, the ground beneath him hard and unyielding, every muscle in his body protesting as he shifted. His stomach—oh, his stomach—it felt as though it had grown overnight, a grotesque, swollen orb that pressed against his ribs and made every breath a struggle. The ache was relentless, a deep, pulsing throb that spread through his entire torso.

He rolled onto his side and immediately regretted it. A wave of nausea surged through him, and he clutched at his belly, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick and heavy, and his throat burned as if he had swallowed hot coals. He needed water. Desperately. The thought consumed him, overriding even the pain in his belly.

Pushing himself upright, he blinked blearily at his surroundings. The park was still, the trees swaying gently in the morning breeze, but the city beyond was alive with noise and movement. He stumbled to his feet, his legs shaky beneath him, and began to wander, his eyes scanning the ground for anything that might hold liquid.

And then he saw it. A bottle, half-buried in the grass, its glass surface catching the light. The liquid inside was a strange amber color, sloshing slightly as he picked it up. The shape of the bottle was alien, its surface smooth and cold, with a thin neck that fit awkwardly in his hand. He turned it over, inspecting it with a mixture of curiosity and desperation, and then brought it to his lips.

The first sip was a mistake. The liquid burned as it hit his tongue, a fiery heat that spread through his mouth and down his throat, making him gag. He pulled the bottle away, coughing and sputtering, his eyes watering as he tried to expel the foreign sensation. But then, beneath the burn, came a strange warmth, a heat that radiated outward from his belly and spread through his limbs, dulling the edges of his discomfort.    

He stared at the bottle, his brow furrowed. The liquid was no water, that much was certain, but it was something. And something was better than nothing. He lifted the bottle again, steeling himself, and took another drink. The burn was just as fierce, but this time he didn’t stop. He drank deeply, the liquid pouring down his throat in a fiery rush, the warmth blooming in his chest and seeping into his bones.

By the time the bottle was empty, the world had changed. The pain in his stomach was still there, but it seemed distant now, muffled beneath the strange, heady fog that filled his mind. His limbs felt loose, unsteady, as if the earth beneath him had turned to water. The trees swayed more than they should, their branches bending in impossible ways, and the sounds of the city seemed louder, sharper, each noise a jarring explosion in his ears.

He staggered out of the park, the bottle slipping from his fingers and shattering on the ground behind him. The city awaited, a labyrinth of light and sound that drew him in with its strange, unrelenting energy. He moved through the streets like a storm, his bloated body weaving and lurching, his movements erratic and uncoordinated. People turned to stare, their faces blurring together into a mass of wide eyes and open mouths.

At first, the chaos was unintentional. He tripped over a metal bin, sending its contents spilling into the street, and stumbled into a line of parked vehicles, their glossy surfaces denting under his weight. The sharp, wailing sound that followed made him clutch his ears, his head spinning as he tried to locate its source. When he found it—a strange, boxy object with lights flashing on its roof—he roared in frustration, his voice a guttural bellow that sent the onlookers scattering.

But as the liquid’s warmth coursed through him, his movements became deliberate. He picked up objects—small, strange things that littered the streets—and hurled them into windows, delighting in the shattering glass. He climbed onto a metal bench, his arms flailing as he howled at the sky, his voice carrying over the din of the city. The people around him backed away, their expressions a mix of fear and confusion, their voices rising in panicked tones that only fueled his frenzy.

The flashing lights returned, brighter and more insistent this time, and with them came figures in dark clothing, their faces stern and unyielding. They approached him cautiously, their hands outstretched, their words slow and deliberate. He didn’t understand them, their sounds meaningless, their gestures foreign. But he recognized the intent in their movements—the way they circled him, the way their hands hovered near their waists, where strange, dark objects hung.

He roared again, his voice raw and broken, and lunged toward them. The world erupted in chaos. They swarmed him, their movements quick and precise, their hands grabbing at his arms and legs. He fought against them, his strength fueled by the fiery liquid and the primal instinct to survive. But there were too many, their grips too strong, and soon he was on the ground, his face pressed against the cold pavement, his limbs pinned beneath their weight.

The world spun around him, a blur of lights and shadows, as they bound his wrists and hoisted him to his feet. The warmth in his chest had turned to a burning heat, a fire that consumed him from the inside out. As they led him away, his head lolled to the side, his eyes half-closed, and he let out a low, guttural moan, a sound that echoed through the night and lingered long after he was gone.

The cell was a box of cold concrete and flickering light, a holding pen that reeked of sweat and despair. The man—bloated, bewildered, and still reeling from the amber liquid—was shoved inside with a gruff command he didn’t understand. He stumbled forward, his swollen belly leading the way, and collapsed onto the hard floor. Behind him, the heavy clang of the door shutting reverberated through the room, a sound that made his head throb and his stomach churn.

The room was alive with noise: low, muttered conversations, the occasional bark of laughter, the jangle of chains. The inhabitants of the cell—a motley crew of ragged figures with hard eyes and twitching hands—turned to look at him, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He didn’t understand their words, but he understood their intent. They saw him as prey, weak and out of place, a curiosity to poke and prod.

He tried to rise, his limbs trembling under the weight of his distended belly, but his balance betrayed him. He fell again, his hands scraping against the rough floor, and let out a low growl of frustration. The sound drew laughter from one of the men, a wiry figure with a scar that twisted his mouth into a permanent sneer. The man approached, his steps slow and deliberate, and squatted in front of him, his eyes glittering with malice.

The scarred man spoke, his words sharp and mocking, and reached out to poke at the swollen dome of the primitive man’s belly. The touch sent a jolt of pain through him, and he recoiled, baring his teeth in a primal snarl. The reaction only seemed to amuse the man, who laughed and gestured to the others, inviting them to join in the fun. They surrounded him, their voices a chaotic jumble, their faces leering and twisted.

One of them, a hulking figure with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up his neck, kicked at his legs, sending him sprawling onto his back. The pain in his stomach flared, sharp and sudden, and he let out a guttural cry that echoed through the cell. The laughter grew louder, a cruel symphony that filled his ears and made his head spin. He lashed out, his arms flailing wildly, and managed to catch one of them on the shin. The man yelped in surprise, hopping back, and the others fell silent, their amusement replaced by a simmering anger.

The scarred man stepped forward, his sneer turning into a snarl, and raised a fist. The primitive man braced himself, his eyes narrowing, his body tensing despite the pain. The first blow landed on his shoulder, a jarring impact that sent him reeling. Another followed, this one catching his jaw, and then another, a heavy punch to his ribs. The world blurred, the pain merging with the haze of the amber liquid, until he could barely tell up from down.

And then came the punch to his belly.

It was as if the world paused, the moment stretching into an eternity. The blow landed with a sickening thud, the force of it driving deep into the taut, overburdened skin of his stomach. There was a sound, a wet, hollow pop that echoed through the cell, followed by a sensation unlike anything he had ever known. His belly gave way, the skin splitting, the pressure releasing in a catastrophic surge. The room erupted in chaos as the contents of his stomach burst forth, a vile torrent that splattered the walls, the floor, the men around him.

The laughter stopped. The taunts ceased. The room fell silent, save for the wet, sloshing sounds of the mess spreading across the floor. The men stared, their faces pale, their eyes wide with horror. The primitive man lay on his back, his body limp, his mind swimming in a sea of pain and confusion. The world around him darkened, the edges of his vision blurring, and he felt himself slipping away, sinking into a void that swallowed him whole.

He woke with a start, gasping for air, his hands clawing at the ground beneath him. The first thing he felt was hunger, a gnawing, all-consuming emptiness that clawed at his insides. The ache in his belly was gone, replaced by the familiar pangs of starvation. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and realized he was no longer in the cell.

The world around him was different, familiar in a way that filled him with a strange mix of relief and unease. The ground beneath him was rough and uneven, the air heavy with the scent of earth and damp vegetation. The sounds of the city were gone, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant cries of birds. He was back—back in his own time, his own world.

He sat up, his body trembling with the effort, and looked around. The forest stretched out before him, its trees towering and ancient, their branches casting long shadows on the ground. The sky above was a deep, endless blue, the sun hanging low on the horizon, its golden light painting the landscape in hues of orange and red.

It had been a dream. The city, the lights, the noise, the people—all of it, a nightmare that had felt all too real. He touched his stomach, half-expecting to find it swollen and distended, but it was flat, his skin smooth and unbroken. The memory of the pain, the explosion, lingered, a phantom ache that made him shudder.

But the hunger was real. It gnawed at him, a relentless force that drove him to his feet, his mind focused on one thing: food. He scanned the forest, his eyes sharp and searching, and began to move, his steps unsteady but purposeful. The dream faded with each step, its edges blurring, its details slipping away, until it was nothing more than a shadow in the back of his mind.

He was home, and he was alive, and the world around him was waiting.