... a long, slow draw.
He is insignificant. He is weaker than the tiniest foal, able to be crushed by the most delicate of hooves. He is that which feeds upon those of the swamp without benefit to any but himself. He is vulnerable. He is that which only takes, and never gives in return. He is predator to a many’s many’s hearts and minds and flanks and blood. He is impersonal. He feels no hatred for those he uses then casts away; all in the pursuit of cold survival, taxing the bodies he relies on. He is the one who leaves the bodies ravaged by years of wear and age and life to be absorbed into the ground by the scavengers. He is that which would thrive upon the flesh of the healthy, the young, the strong; those who have not yet been preyed upon, who can stand to take his abuse for the longest. He is the parasite. He is the tick, the mosquito, the leech. He is that which chews and gnashes and sucks and bites and stings and sinks tiny claws in to hook and chew. He is the tiny flea that bites the hide, the giant, glutted worm feeding from the gut; all that take without return. He is each and every one of those who bring the strong and young closer to death with every shuddering sigh. And still, somehow, he is detached from his fate; almost unaware of the grisly truth of the method of his survival.
An extraction of the inexorable toll...