FireFaceOutlook

Scene I’ve constructed in my mind:

Error ((I’ll come up with a human name for him later)) stared hard at the pale throat before him. All he had to do was press his hand against the carotid artery and check for a pulse. Easy, he could do that. He could– The moment his palm neared the flesh, he cringed so hard he could feel his gag reflex tripping. He turned and dry heaved, shaking his hands against the phantom sensation of physical contact with flesh. God, nope. The creature was dead. It could rot on his lawn for all he cared— ugh, but the stench—! If it was alive and he left it, soon it would be dead and then he’d have the same dilemma.

“For f– fu– –uck’s sake!” he shouted, turning and marching to the still creature. He slapped a hand against its throat—squeezing his eyes shut right before contact, as if that would help. The sensation of cold, slimy flesh turned his stomach and bile flooded his mouth, his elbow buckling with the urge to separate. No, no, it wasn’t flesh he was touching. It was a wall—a freshly painted wall! So freshly painted that wet paint was oozing between his fingers and rolling across the back of his hand. His buzzing nerves remained skeptical as he dug himself into the fantasy—

THHHHHUMP

The wall moved.

Error’s eyes snapped open in time to watch the flesh beneath his hand swell and deflate as the next slow pulse rolled through it. He felt the blood drain from his face and he yanked his hand away to clamp onto his knee instead as he spit up his breakfast on his shoes.

—