this analytical response essay is beating my ass rn!!!!!!!

A torrent of fists rains down on me as I lay down for the count, curled in on myself in a half-hearted attempt to shield what little of my body that remains yet unbroken. 

"But- but how?" I manage to cry between blows, pushing out a canine the Analytical Response Essay knocked loose in its flurry of blows with my tongue, letting it fall limply between my lips and onto carpet of the library basement, where a small basin of my blood has begun to pool. "You're only 1,200 words. You- you're just a little baby bitch busywork assignment!"

The Analytical Response Essay laughs, a sick and ghoulish cackle- the kind of laugh that starts as a snarl in the base of the throat and bubbles up, up into a hot mouth full of sharp teeth, sharp teeth fully exposed in a smile stretched wide across the face in abject, Caligulan delight at being the lone artificer of another's torment.

"You're not wrong," it says, punctuating with another blow into my already fractured jaw. "It's not that I'm strong. It's just that you're weak." 

And in that moment, knowing that my consciousness is dwindling as the fluorescent overhead lights fight a losing fight against the darkness creeping in from the corners of my eyes, one final thought envelopes my fading brain: 

I am the meal of the meal of the fox. 

When the library janitors find my broken body in the basement and give me a proper burial in the park, my putrescence feeds well the grass that fattens the rabbit for the kill.