Work Text:
You feel it clawing at your skin, no matter what you do. Every second of every day the rage within you wants to get out, be unleashed upon the world. You try to contain it, but it's what you were made to do. It’s what they make you do.
You don’t know how much time passes, but they always let you out with some task before the urge overwhelms you. You lose yourself, becoming the urge and the rage and the massacre within your soul. You aren’t human. You’re just a weapon.
She’s there, when they let you down. When the urge subsides, just enough for you to feel that you could have a life. But it’s always there. The constant itch that makes you just want to rip off your own skin.
One day, it didn’t quite work. You never stopped being the urge, and when they put her in the room, instincts and urges supersede any sense of life you could have. You feel the rage and the joy and the blood in your claws.
You feel the pain of a shock, as you slump down onto the floor.
You don’t see her next time they let you down. It’s just you and the need. The only companion that you can't fail.