This is a very hurriedly written piece, so it's not edited or even reread properly. I've just had an idea for a novel in my head for some times now, and it just came to me how I should begin it. I've done hardly any writing before this, but I sort of write things in my head all the time.

So, constructive criticism please. If it's really bad, then please do tell me, but could you also gives me ideas as to how to make it better?

~~~

Nothing has happened, not yet. The rest of the city is not yet aware that anything will happen at all.

But my eyes fly open with the force of the terror that sluices through my body as liquid silver. Because I can feel in my bones – and my blood, and my muscle, and my sinew, and all the other slippery hot wet red things inside me that I don’t know the names of – that fatally large amounts of pain will shortly be happening.

This pure liquid alarm inside me has not yet bypassed my brain. It is a wholly animal response; I am mute, curled up, trembling, gripped by the terror, bracing myself for this nameless, unrevealed disaster that my body is telling me is about to happen.

Then it hits. The ground quakes, everything around me that should be solid, stable, reliable, suddenly convulses. The floor underneath my bed shifts. My arm hits the wall and the fragile bone inside it snaps, hot, sharp pain emanating from it, greedily consuming its way up my arm. I find out that I now have a voice again as, unbidden by me, a shriek surges out of my chest, and with that one noise I cannot stop, as the ceiling falls in chunks around me, more pain flowering everywhere, a ravenous, scalding creature with free reign to curb its hunger on my flesh...

I black out. The pain has devoured me.