It all started with a story. Or two stories, actually.
I drifted through the void, and the stories drifted through me. They were similar in style, both starting out normally, then eventually dissolving into talk of death and blood.
Then, I was somewhere. Not in the void, not in nowhere. Somewhere mentally physical.
I looked at what lay in my hand. A pickaxe, one of the tips covered in blood.
Looking around me, I saw that I was in a small stone room with a low ceiling, the only exit being a doorway carved into the rock to my left. All over the floor in front of me there were large burlap sacks. The one closest to me had a puncture in it, and blood was seeping out of it and onto the cloth.
The next part, I’m partly unsure of. I know what happened, but… I don’t know that I was the one doing the things. I could see my body doing them, sure, but it didn’t seem that I was controlling my body. It was the feeling when something has become so ingrained as a habit that you don’t even notice yourself doing it.
I swung the pickaxe down into the sack, and felt a sickening squeltch when it met its mark. I lifted both, and carried the sack down the hall, to somewhere else. I don’t know where.
I repeated this, over, and over. The strain of it didn’t affect me, somehow. I never tired, never gave my mind and soul a break by halting my deeds, for even a moment.