Grigoi thrusts his hand forward. Through the Beast's teeth. Towards his daughter. He sees the doctor carry her away, hobbling out of the splintered galley. His palm comes to rest on one of the Beast's serrated teeth. The skin tears. Blood. The jaws close. He steals one final glimpse of Stasi through the jagged ring of the monster's mouth. Darkness. Movement.
A rush of water. Grigoi is tossed inside the Beast's mouth. He kicks and claws, fighting to stay out of the Beast's stomach. Rows of teeth rip him open. His leg throbs and bubbles. Barbed teeth in the monster's throat, undulating and pulling him deeper. Grigoi fights. He hates.
His leg begins to burn. Burned by the blood. His blood. He kicks, feels a tooth shatter under his heel. He kicks again and again, his foot nothing but pulp. The blood flows. Mixes with the Beast's blood. He feels the run of his veins under his skin. Ropes of fire. The blood burning. Grigoi writhes. He hates.
The Beast swallows. Constriction. Crushing. Drowning. The stomach churns. The acid burns. The flesh leaves Grigoi's bones. He feels nothing. Nothing except his leg. The leg pulses, throbs. Expands. He feels the Beast's terror. His terror. He feels the Beast's stomach, heaving. His stomach. He feels the Beast's heart, beating. His heart. He feels the Beast's gills, pumping. His gills. He feels the Beast's body, thrashing. His body. He swims. He hates.
He hates the Sea.
He hates the World.
He hates Creation.
His scaly skin twists and knots, becomes stony and thick. His bones stretch and curl, become spines and spikes. A gurgling scream boils out of his throat.
He thinks of his daughter, alone now, and he hates the Beast. He hates himself.