Her Beating Heart

It slowly crawls closer every day, its scales glistening in the sun as it crinkles along, growing with each breath. At least, that is what the emptiness in my head feels like, though I know you cannot understand. Even today, in the nineteenth century, we have little knowledge of why one turns insane, why one scorns reality. And it is thus ignorance that has discarded me here on these grounds, just left waiting for a doctor who will not slaughter my spirit, yet raise me from the ashes of my mind.
Is this him?

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