An Incoherent buzz

Dear fellow who is reading this, I will first state my apologies to both the person who discovered this message, and the poor fellow who has to clean off the sangria red that used to be my skull; for my life will end when this letter does. There may be several concerns, as well as misconceptions of my fate in your head at this moment, but I will do you the favour of sparing your feeble mind from all of these rumors, by telling you the tale of my demise; after all, nobody will believe you in the end.

I was once just like you, an investigator working for the men in crimson, and I was a good investigator that's for sure. In only a few cases, and a couple of days, I'd already reached the highest rank possible for my role. Although this might sound wondrous to you, it was a toll on my body and mental state; several nights without sleep, scenes of flagellation, merlot messages in blood and missing rib cages; made me surrender to the rum without a fight, as a result I'd often be a mess in the offices of ink and paperwork.

My inevitable descent into alcoholism was merely the start of my downfall, as one fateful night would have me choking on the ebony hiding amongst the rocks, and only a few seconds later, my unconscious body lay dormant in my office.

The day afterwards, I woke to the sound of screeching metal, yet the source of this sound was a mystery to me. Even stranger was the ignorance of the people passing by, for when I asked for the source of this abhorrent sound, they looked at me in a mixture of confusion and concern. This would be my least productive day, for all I could think about was that horrible noise; people saw me as mad, and I was quickly sent home by my superiors, their eyes of fear would be the last thing I'd see in my co-workers.

I already felt queer at the start of the day, but at this point I'm practically dissolving from the inside out, a searing pain is enveloping my body, and I feel an endless hunger. In only a matter of seconds, my once called home looked more like a place of poverty, and the smell of burning oil could be sensed from miles away

While my body was altered for the worse, I took notes on what the hell was changing with me; Searing pain, Endless hunger, Constant drooling seemed at first like symptoms for rabies, but rabies doesn't have the symptom of invoking ink from eye sockets, ears or saliva. Neither does it include that buzzing sound which is like hives of insects thriving inside of my ears, or the dozen of holes on my palm; whatever this thing is, it's consuming me from the inside, and expanding within my veins. I realized that I'd have to act quickly to eradicate this threat; at the expense of my own future. Cyanide would be way too slow, and cutting could cause the creature to escape early. Which has led me to the desk where my firearm lay in wait.

This is now the point where past meets present, and where I rest on my last glass of rum; in only a few more minutes, my .50 cal revolver will function for one last time, to hopefully eradicate this thing that's reproducing within my body; if this thing somehow survives, run for your life. Yet even after all this, I've still not found the god forsaken source of that buzzing... I can feel my wrist collapsing in on itself, the thing is trying to escape!

For goodness sake, work dammit!