The pyre from Her self-indulgence cremated any pity we had preserved for her, as she continued on:
"O inoculator, I am weak.
Your virile insertions bring me to your feet.
The logical part of me is indignant by this experiment you've performed on me, but there is another side–a more instinct-driven side in which you've bored into me during one of your unrelenting sessions.
This side of me is thrilled by your creation, this side feels complete having been injected with the serum you've infused from me. Complete, but desiring more.
Was that the plan, inoculator? To get me addicted to your great syringe? If so, then go and rejoice because though I suffer the consequences of your actions, your plan has succeeded."
There was something of a grotesque understanding of what she had expressed. My demigoddess, My idol of devoted worship, was descending into the molten depths of self-annihilation, where the inoculator reigned supreme over her body, mind, spirit.
May she have mercy on her own soul.
A flash fiction collaboration with: @its.cherry.sister