Fear is your only god on the radio.

"When the earth spits out the dead, they will return to tear the flesh from the living" (Voices of The Dead)

Flashing lights.

A swerved car, and a flinch from me, a death-wobble from my bike.

A collision and blistering, unbearable pain.

Screams of shock and sirens as I lay aside the sidewalk, my motorbike smashed somewhere aside the road, not that I can see anything.

My vision is gone- like it never existed in the first place. The pain slowly leaves my body as if it were smoke from an extinguishing candle flame- making it hard to describe how I feel at this moment. Such indescribable bliss that bordered intoxication. Euphoria, even.

Despite the morbidity of my death, I feel warm.

liquid pools from my gut and embraces me. My ribs feel open- like I can finally stretch. Veins like vines twist and spasm as I gasp- the breath scratches my throat like hands, clawing at my wind pipe.

Honestly, I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner. And I never suspected death would feel this free.

I can finally rest now. Falling asleep in the arms of viscera and gore. Like a warm towel after swimming in the beach as a child.

Comfort has never been so easy, warm and bloody.

This sums my soul in such a way that words itself cannot speak.

Maybe this is all that I’ve wanted- to be dead.

All my days dressing like a corpse, and I’ve finally become one.

My vision ebbs to allow the sight of fancy dress shoes. Probably a richie bastard, using my demise as a way to make some cheap cash.

... Hold on.

Something’s wrong.

The same warmth in my gut is also spreading across my neck, along the side of one of my arteries. What the fuck is going on here?

I attempt to move, but weakness restrains my body, pushing me deep in the ground as I feel like I’m getting dragged. The careful and warm embrace gets suddenly shoved away, giving way to a feeling of vunerability I would usually snap at and get ready to fight. But I’m unable to do anything.

There’s nothing I can do but sit and let things happen.

I’m alone.

Well, not really- strange richie bastard dragging me somewhere to probably taxidermy my body or some other wacky shit that men in suits do.

I’m just wishing to go, at this point. Just.... lights out. But that’s just shitty. I refuse to be a main attraction in some manor. Goddamnit. Fuck it all.

I feel strange now. Like I’m floating up, but still shackled to my body, feeling sensation. The stones hitting my body stopped hurting after a while- my body must have gotten used to it.

Or I’m not in the forest anymore. Hardwood floors run along by back, before being lifted up onto something soft. A couch? A bed?

Whatever it is, I feel uneasy.

I feel tenseness in my gut, and the feeling of lightness leaves for a feeling of a stabbing pain and tug.

Stab. Pain. Tug.

Stab. Pain. Tug.

Stab. Pain. Tug.

Stab. Pain. Tightening.

A pat on my shoulder and I’m finally left alone to rest, locked in my own mind and body.

My arms and legs feel underwater, as I lay there. Why aren’t I dead..?

Please tell me this isn't what death is, I dreamed of it, I fucking made it my whole personality. My whole image. Mary Goore. Dropping dead and turns out it's in a fucking pathetic manner. Car crash and turns out that the lights aren't out, like what I believed.

-----

It was hours after the crash, and instead of in a morgue, enbalmed and in the sight of a sobbing loved one, he was in the house of a stranger, on their sofa feeling like they’re having the world’s killer hangover known to man. He felt like he got hit by a truck- which isn’t that far from the truth. Attempting to sit up, but getting greeted by sharp pain all along his gut, causing him to cry out and lift up his shirt to see the damage.

A long, deep and gorey slash all down his gut, starting from the bottom of his right pectoral, running jagged down to his left hip. The stitches were done somewhat professionally, although the wound was red and angry. Walking would be impossible if he can barely get up. But getting out of here was a rather high priority.

Crawling was an option? But then the forest floor could rip open the stitches, and also infection was a risk Mary didn’t feel like bearing.

As if the person could read his thoughts, they walked in, looking straight at him with a glass of water and a smile that made him squint and shuffle back slightly.

It was a woman, about twenties in age, wearing a suit with golden curls tied up, which gave a bounce as she places the glass beside the confused man and helps him up to properly drink the water.

“Drink up. You must be dehydrated.”

She gently orders, bringing the glass to his lips and slightly tipping it into his mouth with a hand underneath his chin to catch any droplets which earns a hum of discomfort from Mary as he moves his head away, not wanting any water, making the stranger step back and place the glass on the coffee table nearby. Then proceeding to sit down beside Mary, giving him a tilt of the head, which was not charming, like what she must have intended. But rather annoying and eye-roll worthy.

“What’s your name, darl’?” She asks, giving a smile and shimmying a slight closer to him. He dared not to utter a singular word to her. Who even was she? Some freaking weirdo who manages to ressurect people from the dead. At his silence she awkwardly fiddles with gloved hands and takes a breath, beginning to speak again.

“Oh. You must want me to introduce myself. I’m Miriam. Madam to you.”

She introduces, as if that would make him feel any comfortble around a woman like herself. At her truly horrifying blue-eyed stare, he looks away, uncomfortble.

“Mary. Goore.” He mutters rather curtly which earned Miriam to stand up and walk away from him- much to his relief.

“Well, I already knew it. Just wanted to confirm from you. Anyway. Rest up. I will check on you at night.”

She replies as if talking to a wounded animal, closing the curtains as the sunlight begins to peek through the tops of the trees, taunting them both. He laid back as she walked out, muttering to herself. When she left, he stared at the ceiling. How could she know? He never said anything along the lines of “Oh hey I’m Mary Goore, currently dying” while being dragged- in fact, he couldn’t even wheeze or groan. So either she stole his ID, or somehow read his mind. Which was ridiculous. Mid thought, they give a stretch and yawn, placing his hand where the warmth was while he was in the limbo of Life vs. Death.

Two small pin-pricked scabs on the side of his neck, with the lines on dried blood where it must have ran down.

Strange. He’ll have to patch it up later when he can sit up. And walk.

Until then, he’ll just have to grin and bear the fact that he’s trapped. Animal in a cage. She has the key, and probably doesn’t want him having it. She was going to be an issue for him, to say the least.

Only thing he could hope was that she wasn’t the last thing he had to deal with.

He fought back against the feeling of exhaustion, trying to hang onto the tearing string of awareness, fighting against falling asleep. It was a struggle- You tend to be tired when you’ve just woken up from death. Not that anybody other than him can overly confirm.

He hoisted himself up and clutched his gut as he sat up, grabbing the glass of water and taking a sip from it. He made a sound as the ice cold liquid ran down his raw and scratchy throat, giving a feeling close to numbness, and the slow pain that such a sensation brings. He winces and places the glass down, sighing and staring up at the ceiling.

When the call of sleep screams in the back of his mind, they lay back and begrudgingly go to sleep, just silently hoping he woke up in the morning.

The dream he had was foggy, like he was watching it all through frosted glass. But what was given to him through the cracks of the window was... illogical.

A woman with short pink hair, openning her arms towards him, with blood dripping down from mouth to breasts, and ending at the last bump of her ribs, unhealthily underweight.

Her mouth is moving in speech, but the sounds that elicit from her lips, give a feeling as being underwater, filling his ears with the thick liquid, even prying it’s way into their throat, pushing at his oesophagus, making him keel over and hack, trying to cough the ill-tasting water out of his mouth, gasping out for breath as he reaches out to the strange woman.

Her lips pout and she tilts her head, pausing as she steps closer to him, seemingly to be walking over the water he’s drowning in. The moment she kneels down to clutch his face, the water tugs him down, molding the area to include a singular pedestal.

Catching his breath, he weakly crawls over, only to be forced into the embrace of cold shackles, holding his wrists and ankles down- tugging him onto the cold and unfamiliar concrete.

All for the sick delight of Madam.

The woman sits back, her blonde hair let loose as she smokes with a Cigarette holder, blowing rings into the air before standing up to walk to Mary, grabbing his chin and blowing the smoke into his face, making him recoil slightly before she forces him to look at her- spitting insults that he can’t hear himself. But all he can hear is the sound stabbing into his ears, the tone sharp compared to the wave of the woman with pink hair he... can’t remember.

The dream abruptly ends as she shoves him backwards, causing him to jolt up on the couch, panting from the stabbing pain in his gut, and the nightmare itself.

He wipes the cold sweat off his forehead as he lays back, staring at the ceiling in thought. Normally his constant nightmares made no sense, and had no showing of the thing he was being chased by, but this time, he saw the danger.

Miriam. She was the thing he had to run from.

This time, if he got caught, he couldn’t just wake up and try again. He would probably be eaten by that freak. Best to play it safe;

very, *very* safe.

As if to summon the devil himself, Miriam walked- no, glided in, with some form of breakfast and placed it on the table beside the glass before kneeling at his side and moving the side of his mohawk front away from his face to look into his eyes.

They move the woman’s interrupting hands away from his face, giving a displeased expression at her action, pushing his upper body up with his forearms- attempting to move away which does not, in fact, cause him to move away thanks to Miriam grabbing his chin and pulling him closer, her face twisted in anger, and for once in Mary’s life, they felt afraid- scared as a kid, sure, but not afraid like this. He felt like a rabbit stuck in a wolf’s mouth from her actions.

If breath was physical, her words would be thick and slimy tendrils, grabbing the man by their throat and squeezing as she hisses, spewing venom out to him.

“Don’t you dare do that again, Mr. Goore. You are no mutt, hm?” She pressed, pulling him closer, making him wince at the pain of her forcibly grabbing his cheeks to squeeze them, or the fanning of her cigarette stained breath across his nose and cheeks.

“...Back up. Madam.”

He growls, puffing his chest out as he gets defensive, feeling cornered from her actions. Restraint was something he despised- he was a free soul, goddamnit. Not listenning to anyone’s orders and words- meanwhile he was here, pushed down and pulled around metaphoricaly (and somewhat physically.) He pushed her hand away with an uncomfortble look. Meanwhile Miriam’s face twisted to pure distain before relaxing to a smile that was forcibly sweet and calm before she raised her hand.

Smack.

Mary winced, clutching his cheek before glaring at her while she was about to backhand the other side of his face. His eyes dig into the woman’s soul- if she even had one- and grabbed her wrist before she could make any contact. He could have punched her, sure- but the idea of fighting a maniac like her while he’s one cough from being cover art of a horror movie? Gave him second thoughts.

She harshly moves her hand up and walks away like nothing happened at all, but not without giving him an angry glare as she walks out.

“You’re just like a dog, Mr. Goore.

You’d be dead within the minute if I left you out in the rain.