Rich

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It is coming. The hyperactive fluttering of butterflies in your gut confirms your fears. Running is no longer an option. In the end, it always finds you.

Fresh sweet peppermint and cinnamon waft down from above. Resulting in a quite whimper, escaping your lips. Its too late. Whatever is left of your exhausted and shattered body sags to the ground. Its over. Your done. With as much strength as you can muster, you lift your lips to the sky. Praying to a God you don't believe in, wishing for this to all be over now.

Swiftly and with ease your slowly overcome with the stench of peppermint. In the mist now surrounding the corpse of your body, your violent hacking, causes you to inhale the beast. Allowing it access to your entirety. The taste of cinnamon lingers like the foul aftertaste of beer on your tongue and your teeth.

What one would normally consider such flavours a delicacy, diminishes you. You can no longer consider to be even considered yourself anymore.

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