The elephant ate himself, one bite at a time. He heard it was the best way. He started with his tail, tugging until in snapped free. The pests were worse without his natural swatter, but he did not intend to have to endure them for long. Overall, it was a good beginning.

He considered doing it for a long time. The weight of being became too heavy—his legs, his head harder to lift. His skin sagged beneath the burden. Dread began when his body outgrew his personality. Now, he could barely move when he thought of his existence.  

When he was lucky, he was ignored. (Though, he was sure they knew he was there: the smell alone.) Or worshipped, feeling awkward knowing there was no magic he could present. Unlucky, he was enslaved and forced to bear the workload, because his back could take it. Why else was he created?

The elephant took his time savoring his genitals while covering his face with his broad ears to preserve the intimacy of his undoing; the truth is they were as good as copulation. The bulk of him went piece by manageable piece. His skin went down much easier raw than he would have thought. Even thick skin has a rending point.

In the wild, he escaped pursuit of his tusks for use as decorations or weapons or medicinal powder; he took each whole into what was left of him. In captivity, he was put on display for his exoticism, or forced to entertain; he was careful not to choke, so close to immateriality, on his overworked, glorified trunk. Finally, he swallowed his voice, and vanished down the vortex of his own trumpet.