Òyì nke e mepụtara

I try to scream—should scream—but my throat’s shredded from earlier, so all that comes out is a wet gurgle, blood bubbling between my fangs. My vision tunnels, the torchlight fracturing into prismatic shards as the boar’s fingers squelch inside my ruined chest, kneading the remains of my ducts like dough. [sad]