It was overpowering.

Violet resisted. She had resisted for many long weeks, but she couldn't resist anymore. Her sheet was over her head, she was still shivering. Her face was smashed into her pillow, eyes tightly shut, sides pulled over her ears. She could still see. She could still hear. In fact, someone was screaming.

It was her. Her own voice, her pretty, rich, controlled, modulated, always soft, always delicate, always conforming to the very height of grace and good manners...

Ripping through her throat, bubbling out like a spring, a hot spring. It burned and shred her throat, and she thanked whatever god had been sadistic enough to make this place and these mutations that the Remnants lived so far apart from each other. No chance of being overheard. Jobs would not run to the rescue, not save his damsel in distress.

Jobs would not know, would never know, could never know.

She was eating herself alive from the inside, it felt. It sickened her. The worms were part of her, and they gnawed and sucked away inside of her. They bit her organs, they gnawed her bones, it was agony to be eaten and yet such pleasure to be fed... only she could satisfy her own hunger, only she could take away her torment, only she could appease the gnawing, sucking, biting worms.

And she felt herself, heard herself scream for them, call them out, beg them to take her, kill her, eat her, satisfy her... end her.

And time lost meaning. Violet ceased to be herself. Self-awareness had been seduced, tempted, escorted away by animal pleasure. Violet? Who was Violet? What was Violet? Nope, no Violet here... just us hungry, vicious worms...

And then she came to, then she was Violet again... Then she was no longer hungry, then she was whole again.

Her smooth satin sheets were crumpled and torn. Her pillow had a huge, gaping hole in the right corner, snowy feathers had spilled and scattered to the four corners of the room. Violet's white satin nightgown was ripped, exposing her breasts, thighs, stomach, shoulders...

But how satisfied she felt. How full, completed. As if all was fine, as if things were all right. As if (minutes? hours? days?) ago she was not begging for release, deliverance.

Temptation! she moaned in her head. She had given into the most basic animal instinct, it felt. The worms begged for her touch, her fill, and she sank, she melted, she gave in. She could already feel the beginnings of desire flood up into her again, just an inkling here and there. She craved to feel it again, that pressure free world of giving in.

But she felt so filthy all the same. Lying in her bed, practically naked, feeling the cool air and smooth sheets on her skin. Someone walking in on her, they wouldn't believe she had given into the worms eating her body. She looked, felt as though she had given into that other primal instinct, that other basic urge that people claimed they could not control, but could.

But if that felt as good as this...

No. No.

Violet allowed herself to be borne away, taken over, sunk by temptation, sucked away by pleasure, relief, rather than handling it. She took the coward's way, she gave up. She did what was morally wrong to feel good.

And God, she was already planning when to do it again.