I woke up sometime later. I was hungry…
it took 3 attempts to constrict the muscles in the my throat tight enough to push it down past my gag reflex, but eventually whatever wet mound I blindly grabbed off of the floor made it down into the pit of my empty stomach. Though it was probably just me going insane, I heard every one of my organs scream and gag in disbelief as the mystery food slid down my interior. I don't care. If I just ate a piece of shit, at least it smelled better than some other stuff I picked up and sniffed.
The darkness is playing tricks on me. I'm seeing trails when I move now. Like, magical trails. But I know that it's just partial memories being projected onto the parts of my brain that normally receive images from my eyes. I've moved my arms millions of times in my life, so when I move them now, my brain knows what it should look like, so it shows me. And it tricks me.
The sounds trick me too.
The myth is true. When one sense goes away, the others grow stronger. And because of that, the sounds not only trick me. They HAUNT me. Over time, the sounds were jumbled. It felt like my hearing was getting worse, until I realized that I was just picking up MORE sounds, and I had to learn to separate them.
To separate the sounds of dripping from sounds of recycled air passing through parts of my fur that have been matted together by dried blood and…who knows. I had to separate sounds of maggots feasting from maggots morphing into their winged counterparts. When its really quiet, I can hear an ant piss.
The sounds are a vivid reminder that the only reason I am here is to be left for dead. It's been days, weeks maybe. This isn't intentional torture. I haven't been interrogated. I haven't been forced to give up information that I'm hiding. I've simply been left. The smells of death that are acting as my oxygen and the recognizable textures of a lot of the obstacles I trip over and feel are just 2 of the signs that I am supposed to be dead…along with everyone else in here.

The buzzing from the flies is driving me fucking crazy. Do flies fuck? Or do they simply just lay a million eggs and miraculously birth busloads of maggots just to annoy the shit out of me?

The buzzing died down. Must be nighttime. I can hear the flies snoring. If I were a children's author, maybe this would inspire me to write a book about a narcoleptic fly that annoys the shit out of someone to the point of insanity, but then instantly falls asleep and snores and its so fucking cute that the annoyed guy just forgives the fly. But no…im a little bit more than an author. I'm a fucking prisoner.

It was quiet for a few moments. Long enough to feel my eyelids collapse and catapult me into another world. One where the colors are still vibrant, and where I can fly instead of cry. But I was jolted awake by a collection of scraping noises above my head.
How high is the roof? Are the noises inside or outside?
Nah, they are outside, for sure.
"Don't bother trying to get IN," I thought. "Unless you are looking for a place to die. Or, rather, perhaps you are looking for something that IS dead…or dying."

Maybe the Vultures are back to reset the world again…

I listened to the scraping noises for hours, thinking about the history lessons that were drilled into our heads as children.
Every year, until grade 10, there was always someone who asked the same question. I'm convinced that it was mainly an excuse for story time, as the answer was always a long and fascinating one:

"How come where we live is called Vulture?"