Chapter 12: The Quiet Starvation

A Chapter by PA1

(The Stomach)

Beneath the city of Corpus, where tunnels hummed with low vibrations and pipes pulsed like veins, the Market District never slept.

It couldn’t.

Because the world expected it to feed them�"always.

And the Stomach?
He fed.
He digested.
He endured.

But he was starving.

No one saw it. Not fully.

The vendors still came. The needy still bargained. The system still demanded input, consumption, conversion. Take the raw, make it usable. Absorb the rot, make it fuel. He did it all.

The Stomach had always taken pride in his work. He’d built the Market not as a place of commerce, but of integration�"the heart of Corpus’s metabolism. Everything passed through here eventually. Desire. Memory. Pain. Pleasure.

It was meant to be sacred.

But lately, the sacred had curdled.

The vendors had changed. The stalls became frantic, hurried. They no longer asked if they were wanted�"they only asked to be swallowed. Fast. Without question.

The foods he processed were no longer nourishing.

They were filler.

Empty interactions. Superficial comforts. Manufactured sentiment.

Junk.

And the more he consumed, the less he recognized what he was digesting.

He’d wake with bile in his mouth, unable to remember why.

Then came the churning.

At first, it was physical�"a clench behind the belly-button district, a tightening of the Gutway that made everything feel too tight. But it grew. Spread. Became something deeper.

It was emotional indigestion.

Too many unsaid things. Too many repressed truths.

The city had been swallowing pain and washing it down with empty distractions.
And he was the one absorbing the cost.

He tried to talk to the Liver once. But the Liver didn’t respond.

(He didn’t yet know the Liver was gone. Only that something had ceased.)

He sent a message to the Heart�"just a subtle shift in blood sugar, a coded hunger pang meant to indicate imbalance. But the Heart was drowning in his own pulse.

He pinged the Brain. No reply.

Even the Lungs had vanished into the arterial winds.

He was alone.

And he was full�"but not fed.

That was when the dreams began.

He saw a version of himself, bloated and stretched, cords of processed emotions straining against his skin. His gut glowed with advertisements. His mouth was fused shut, and instead of speech, receipts poured from his eyes.

He would wake retching. Vomiting colors. Sounds. Memories that didn’t belong to him.

And always, after the dreams, he would feel it:

That presence.

Slithering inside him.

Not as infection. Not as disease.

As a digestive lie.

It spoke to him once.

Not aloud. But through craving.

He felt a sudden, desperate hunger�"for nothing real. Just the act of consumption itself. The need to devour, to feel full if only for a moment. He recognized the trick immediately. But that didn’t stop him from nearly indulging.

Because that’s how the virus worked, wasn’t it?

It made emptiness feel like fullness.

It made silence feel like satisfaction.

He staggered to the Gut Temple�"a forgotten place beneath the Market where ancient enzymes once danced in ceremony. It was here Corpus once honored its needs, naming them aloud before they were fed.

Now, it was dust. Abandoned. Its altars collapsed. Its rituals forgotten.

But the Stomach knelt anyway.

And for the first time in decades, he said it aloud:

“I’m not hungry. I’m unheard.”

The chamber responded.

Not with words. But with a release.

His gut clenched, hard. He screamed�"not in pain, but in catharsis. Decades of accumulated false nourishment flushed through him. The bile, the clutter, the emotional junk�"purged.

And when he fell, trembling, slick with sweat and tears, he heard it:

The Heart’s rhythm.
The Lungs’ breath.
The true pulse of the city.

Weak.
But still alive.

He dragged himself to the center of the Market. Climbed the old scaffold once used for speeches. The crowd ignored him�"too busy with their trades, their offers, their need to fill themselves.

So he screamed.

Not a call for attention.

But a retching howl.

The sound of refusal.

The moment a system rejects its poison.

Vendors paused.
Customers turned.
The Market blinked.

And the Stomach spoke.

“I will not feed what cannot feel.”

“I will not process lies into nutrients.”

“If we want to be whole again, we must ask ourselves what we’re eating. Emotion. Action. Story. Why do you crave what hurts you?”

He held up his hands�"covered in acid burns, shaking from purge�"and said:

“I’m not your trash bin. I’m not your quick fix. I’m the part that turns pain into power�"if you let me.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, one by one, the stalls dimmed.

The fake foods faded.

And the Market began to fast.

Not in starvation.

In reflection.

The Stomach collapsed�"but not from weakness.

From release.

He’d finally stopped swallowing what wasn’t his.

And for the first time in a generation, Corpus began to digest itself honestly.

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© 2025 PA1

Author's Note

The Stomach has always been one of the most misunderstood parts of Corpus. It’s not just about consumption—it’s about transformation. But what happens when transformation becomes transaction? When everything you take in is designed to keep you empty?

This chapter was born from a question that haunts so much of modern life: Why do we consume what doesn’t nourish us? Whether it's media, relationships, food, or even our own narratives—there’s a quiet epidemic of false fullness. We’re stuffed, yet starving. Satiated, yet unsatisfied.

The Stomach’s arc is not glamorous. It’s messy. It’s sweaty. It’s violent in its honesty. But sometimes, healing begins with refusal. With the courage to say: I will not process this anymore.

The Market’s fasting isn’t about denial—it’s about reclamation. About choosing awareness over automaticity. Hunger, after all, isn’t just a physical need. It’s an emotional language. And if we don’t listen to it honestly, we’ll fill ourselves with lies until we burst.

This was one of the hardest chapters to write. Not because of the subject matter—but because, in many ways, we’re all the Stomach at some point. Taking in what the world hands us, even when it hurts.

This chapter is a purge. But more importantly, it’s a prayer.

To be fed.
To be heard.
To be healed.

— Oghogho Akpeli