♱⁺.⊹꒷꒦ 🕸 ꒷꒦⊹.⁺♱

“I do believe this would have ended differently, if only we had seen eye to eye. But your eyes shift and flicker, always changing their loyalties. Perhaps if you were a dog, loyal to his owner until the very end. Instead, you opted to be the owner, and The Prisoner your dog. Don’t you see your fatal mistake?”

The Ringleader strained against his restraints, eyes glitching as he looked around frantically. Ylil saw colors in them that he had never seen before. Black and gold swirled around his pupils, mixing with the red and green in a deadly tango.

“Tell me that you see it, Ringleader. Tell me,” Ylil commanded, yanking on the chain that was wrapped around the ringleader’s neck.

“I’m afraid I can’t see much of anything anymore. Just promise me that you will spare her,” he pleaded, irises finally blending with his pupils to create a void-like black.

“Who? The Prisoner? You have tortured her throughout both life and death, breaking the barrier between the two just to make her life miserable. Why start caring for her now? Have you finally realized that your little game has come to an end?” Ylil was breathing down his neck, now acutely aware that the rest of the resistance was watching, waiting.

“It was never her fault,” was all The Ringleader said. He said it in a whisper, as though it pained him to say. A single tear fell from the void of his eye and cascaded down his face.

“I promise,” Ylil whispered back. The tears had spread to him now. He let them fall, silently praying that The Resistance could not see. The lights of the stage were blinding, but they also illuminated everything they touched. He continued to pray. To say he regretted what he had done would be incorrect, but the breath caught in his throat all the same.

“I promise,” he repeated.

“I’m terribly sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused,” he smiled slightly, his face now drenched with tears. It was the smile of a man facing the end.

“Don’t worry about it, Semaj.” He had never once used the name of The Ringleader, until now.

“May I walk with her one last time?”

“The Prisoner?”

“Don’t call her that. She has a name, you know.”

“What is it?”

“Spider.”

Ylil smiled—genuinely this time—at that.

“It’s fitting.”

“Truly.”

“You can see her.”

“Thank you.”

Ylil gestured to two of The Resistance. they nodded and left the room. Moments later, Spider was there. She was clothed. Not in the white dress he had made her wear many a time. She was dressed entirely in black, the color of mourning. Her mouth bore no stitches, and she had a knife in her holster.

“You’ve changed,” Semaj said, nodding to her.

“That I have. I’d like to think you’ve changed too.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he laughed. It was a strained thing. It wasn’t as it had been previously. The laugh was not one of a man who knew he was winning, but rather of a man who had given up on the game entirely.

“Are you ready?” Ylil asked, patience seeping into his voice.

“Yes. Make sure she sees. I want her to sleep well knowing that i cannot haunt her anymore.”

“Thank you,” Spider said.

“It’s really the least I could do.” The smile returned.

Ylil gestured to the back of the stage. Lirpa stepped into the light. Hands bare, she made her way towards Semaj. Tendrils of smoke floated from her hands. The smoke was not the remains of a fire, but rather the remains of her memory.

And she was going to corrupt him too.

“On the count of three, okay?” Lirpa confirmed.

One.

The crowd turned towards the stage.

Two.

Semaj closed his eyes and smiled.

Three.

Lirpa gently took his hand in hers, and he began to fade. His feet were the first to go. They faded into a black fog and floated across the room. Then his legs went. Each part of him began to disappear. Bit by bit he turned back into the nothingness that he began as. At first, he was afraid, but as the smoke reached his neck he felt at peace. It was over, and he had lost, but he didn’t feel the way he had always thought he would about it.

The peace washed over what was left of him as his smile began to fade into the void.

It was over.

He had lost.

And he was okay with it.

For the very first time in his death, he felt happy.

And then he was gone.

this short story belongs to rottingghost. do not copy or alter my work in any way. reblogging is okay as long as you do not claim it as your own.

The room was dimly lit. A glowing orb floated above the heads of the three people occupying it, providing one of the only sources of light. Though there were three thrones in the room, only one sat upon one. The second stood with an arm resting on the throne of the first, while the third occupied a spot on the ground, her back leaning against the same throne.

A knock.

The orb floated towards the door, briefly bathing the three people in yellow light. The one on the throne had short, golden locks that seemed to glow under the light of the orb. It fell in waves over his eyes, though not enough to fully obscure them. His eyes were golden as well, and his lips were flecked with gold, almost as though someone had taken a paint brush covered in paint and flicked some onto his lips. His eyelashes were a beautiful bone white, paler than his skin. He wore a white button-up and a golden vest with black pants. In his hand he held a small pocket watch.

The one standing to his right had hair the color of night, but when caught in light it turned a shimmering violet, which is as it was now. Their hair glitched, constantly changing lengths to match the clothes they kept shifting in and out of. Ink black suits and shining purple dresses adorned their body as their form kept changing.

The one sitting to the golden man’s left had ink black hair that fell to her chin on one side, and on the other it was shaved down about an inch from her scalp. She wore a leather jacket and ripped black jeans, with her feet clothed in dark combat boots.

Another knock.

The three exchanged glances as the orb continued to float towards the door.

“Announce yourself,” the golden man bellowed as the door began to slowly open. It led to an equally dimly lit hallway, and as such, it was hard to see the man standing there. After the door finished opening, the orb floated behind the man, illuminating him for the room to see.

“Call me,” he paused, “The Ringleader.”

The golden man raised an eyebrow. The Ringleader sure was a sight. As his name suggested, he wore a red ringleader outfit, golden buttons and all. A black top hat sat atop his head. The short heels of his boots clacked against the floor as he walked into the room, the glowing orb trailing him still.

“And I presume you are...” The Ringleader trailed off, looking at the three for an answer. He fidgeted with his gloved hands, his eyes flicking from side to side. They were red.

“Now, now, don’t play dumb. You’re here for a reason, are you not? Of course you know who we are,” the golden man replied.

“Well, why don’t you say it again, just for laughs.” The Ringleader’s smile spread across his face. The golden man scowled but started to speak anyway.

“Call me Time. To my left,” he gestured to the girl sitting on the floor, “is Death, and to my right,” he gestured to the person standing up, “is Fate.”

“Fascinating!”

“I’m sure you have seen many more fantastical things, being on The Island, and all.”

“So, you have heard of me?”

“Who hasn’t? Your presence in the theater is known far and wide, and I’m sure Fate has disguised themself to see your shows many a time. Haven’t you, Fate?” he asked as his head swiveled to the glitching person to his right. They nodded, then seemed to settle on one final outfit and hairstyle. The hair they had chosen was short, falling just barely below the ears. A white button down flowed over their form, only being reined in by a black waist corset. Their pants were black as well, and platform boots covered their feet.

“I will admit that the methods you use on the girl are quite,” Fate paused, “startling. Must you really torture her like that?”

Only silence followed.

“I suppose the girl is with you?” Time asked, taking control of the situation once more.

“Why would she be?”

“I assume she has status, with you always fawning over her like that.”

“Fawning? Why I am merely leading her on so her screams will be that much more enjoyable to my audience!” he squealed, clapping his hands together.

Time observed the man some more, taking note of his wild gestures. They seemed too staged, too fake to be believable. So much so that he supposed it was believable, at least to the audience that joined The Ringleader in the theater every morning and every night. Maybe that was The Ringleader’s charm.

“What is your business here?” Death asked, careful to keep her voice monotone and absolute, as though it was more of a command than a question.

“Well, I see that you’ve already heard of the girl. Recently there has been a bit of a mishap. You see, she tried to end her life. Which is, as I understand it, rather confusing considering she is already dead. Nevertheless, she tore out her heart and proceeded to stomp on it. Luckily, I got to her before any damage was caused, but she broadcasted it for the whole of The Island to see. As you can guess, this greatly tarnished my reputation. However, this is not the issue. Devotion is an ever-dying flame, but the flames can always be fanned. So, what I need from you is a place to keep her heart safe and hidden, where she cannot find it. And if she does, she will never be able to reach it. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Time studied him some more. He observed the way his teeth came to sharp points. He observed how one of his eyes violently flickered between green and red. He observed how he held himself, as though he was the most powerful being in the world.

But of course, that wasn’t true.

He was standing in front of Time himself after all.

“From my understanding, you wish to keep her from passing on to a place of pure bliss and happiness, is that right? You wish to keep her chained up in your torture chamber, as you allow her pain to be broadcast to the whole of your silly island?” Death posed it as a question, but Time knew better.

It was a threat.

“Now, now. What’s with all the commotion?” He elongated the word, stretching it around his mouth and playing with it as a child would with a piece of bubblegum whose flavor had long run out.

“Don’t try and play innocent,” Death said, shooting the words out of her mouth like a bullet from a loaded gun.

Time and Fate simply watched.

“But don’t you see? It’s like a game in my casino. Meaningless.”

“Meaningless until you lose a thousand dollars from your bank account,” she scoffed.

He simply continued, “What’s it to you? You get to keep another one of your dead here on my island. She’s safe and protected and—”

“Safe and protected my ass!”

“Now, now, let’s all take a moment to—”

But Time was cut off.

He felt a dagger at his throat.

“I’m usually not one for threats, but her life—or her death, I suppose—is mine, and I intend to do everything in my power to keep it.” The Ringleader whispered, his warm breath traveling into Time’s ear as he continued to hold the dagger up to his throat. Time’s eyes veered to his right, then his left, but both of his coworkers—his friends—had found themselves in the same predicament. Two women shrouded in dark cloaks had somehow managed to get into the room, and each had led their daggers right to the throats of Fate and Death.

Fate thought only of shapeshifting, of turning into a cat, a bird, maybe even a lizard, but as soon as they would have, the throats of Time and Death would surely be slit.

Death thought only of how she could kill them all that instant, but of course she could only do that if all three of them worked together.

And Time thought of nothing but the ticking pocket watch he gripped in his hand. He thought of how he could have used it to turn back time, but that always seemed to have unforeseen repercussions, and only Fate would be able to see how they would play out.

They couldn’t really die of course, because how can a humanoid concept die? But if their throats were cut, they would lose their power and status, and be diminished to empty shells of themselves that would inhabit The Island.

The Island of Lost Souls.

As though in sync, the three slowly nodded their heads, and the daggers were released from their throats.

“Do we have a deal?”

Time was careful to keep his voice steady as he said, “I do believe we do.”

The Ringleader grinned at that, his lips stretching to and unnatural length. His knife-sharp teeth glinted in the glow of the room. The orb, who had been frantically flying around the room when it saw the daggers at its superiors’ throats, now floated in one place, simply watching. The cloaked women had disappeared back into the shadows, lost to the darkness again.

“Now, shall we discuss how we will proceed?”

this short story belongs to rottingghost. do not copy or alter my work in any way. reblogging is okay as long as you don’t claim it as your own.

The snow was cold on my pale limbs. Wind bit and tore at my skin, but I kept on the path—the path to the end. This was all my fault, and I knew that.

But it still hurt.

I thought of all the scars, all the tears, and all the pain. Now the end would come at last. A rock clung to my path, and it led me to the ground in a harsh fall. This would be my final fall.

And soon would come my final breath.

Soon.

But not yet.

Cold gripped every inch of my body as I hit the ground with a sharp snap. My body quivered as it was enveloped in snow. It tried desperately to hold on, even though I had already given up a long, long time ago. Rocks, twigs and sticks that had littered the ground that I had fallen on scraped and tore at my back. The blood came next. Its oozing warmth clashed with the frigid cold of the snow. The blood would not be the death of me though, I was sure of it.

It would be the snow.

Sweet and full of grace, it would be my final fall.

I guess I still had one last fall.

The thought brought me warmth, despite the snow that encased my body.

Just one last fall.

As I lay there, the next hour slowly crept near.

My final hour.

I thought of how bright the sun had been earlier that day. I thought of how it glimmered off the blade that I scraped along my thighs. I thought of how it had transformed my tears into little droplets of frozen time. I thought of my growing collection of blades and sharp things, objects that I had hoarded over a year of pain. I thought of the guilt that gouged at my gut when I let the blade sink into my flesh over, and over again.

It had really only been a year of this, and yet my body was frail and weak and sickly, slowly rotting as I deprived myself of everything it yearned for. It screamed at me often, but I paid no mind.

You’ll never be clean.

You let them down.

You are nothing.

It truly was a beautiful day to die.

I thought of what death would bring.

Peace.

Quiet.

Home.

And then Death came and gently took me in their arms,

And brought me home.

this short story belongs to rottingghost. do not copy or alter my work in any way. reblogging is okay as long as you don’t claim it as your own.

The clock's numbers glowed a crimson red, its pixelated blood reading the time 3:00am. My body always seemed to stir at this hour, as though the time was buried in a long-forgotten memory that my body was begging me to remember.

But I didn't.

The time meant nothing to me, only bringing back memories of cheesy superstition and quiet hallways illuminated with a single night light. I crept out of bed, my toes clutching padded carpet. The sound of my beating heart echoed in the empty space, a steady badum-badum that kept me moving, even when my stomach twisted and knotted itself into a tight ball.

Something was wrong.

With quiet feet and a muffled heart, I walked on. I stepped through the doorway that guarded my room from the darkness that consumed the hallway. Slowly but surely, my eyes begin to pick out shapes in the darkness. Different gradients became clear, and the darkness began to become a friend rather than an all-consuming evil.

I walked on.

The air smelled of days spent in ignorant bliss. There were wooden playgrounds and bathing suits that reeked of chlorine. There were books piled and stacked upon one another to create a small fort. There were imaginative games born of paper and ink. There was the soft fabric of a butterfly carpet, one used as a sort of stage. There were the sounds of pleading, pleading for ice cream, pleading for gifts, pleading for anything and everything that we could ever imagine.

And then I arrived.

His room was still filled with that ignorant bliss that I longed for so badly. Toys littered the ground, creating an intricate web of childhood memories. Books stacked and littered surfaces, their bright covers promising adventure to all those that dared to peek inside.

His room was a memory in of itself.

It was our memory.

His small form rested under a blanket covered in small cartoon trucks and cars, all driving along a little road dotted in yellow. Whispering piano keys and soft violin strings danced through the air, keeping perfect time with one another. Stuffed animals piled and surrounded his body, keeping him safe from every bit of darkness in this cruel world. A book rested by his side, being the culprit behind his deep sleep.

"I love you," I whispered.

I doubt he heard. But maybe, somehow it had snuck into his dream, and he would begin to smile. He would fly, play, and enjoy the ignorant bliss that occurred in his head during sleep. He would enjoy the childhood that I had never had.

It was beautiful, a memory frozen in time.

But that's all it was.

I looked down at my hands as I tried to make a small heart out of them. When I looked up again, holding the heart in front of my face, he was gone. The bed was empty, and the music dulled, turning instead into whispered voices and soft crying. A tear fell onto the now-shaking heart as I began to sway back and forth.

He really was gone.

My eyes began to flutter shut, but I steadied myself against the wave of darkness that engulfed me.

I saw it all.

There it was: his tear-torn face, his cracked lips, his tangled hair, his chipped teeth moving up and down as he screamed the words, I’m sorry I ruined everything again, as the traffic blared and his razor sharp words cut into my stomach, as people jumped out of their cars, as we shouted at him to get off that ledge because we loved him, as I began to bleed and bleed from the imaginary wounds that he inflicted, as tears poured down my face, as I finally started to work up the courage to say It’s not your fault, it’s mine, as he jumped.

As he jumped.

The words still sounded so foreign in my mind, but I knew that what they said was true.

He jumped.

And then the room returned to my vision, perfect as it had been before. His eyes scurried under their lids, running and hopping from adventure to adventure. The book had landed on the floor now, and there it lay, wide open still. Before I had a say, my hands reached towards the book and pulled it towards me. And though the page was bare of printed ink, one sentence scrawled in blood dug into the page.

3:00AM - Sometimes it’s better to pretend.

this short story belongs to rottingghost. do not copy or alter my work in any way. reblogging is okay as long as you don’t claim it as your own.

Alone, it sat.

Waiting.

Longing.

Existing, but not quite.

Its plush velvet fabric was coated in fine dust particles that made the surface appear dull and gray. Somewhere in the memories of the inhabitants of the house was its bright cherry red velvet, but those memories had long faded, and those inhabitants had long disappeared. Ornate carvings clung to the legs of the chair, depicting mythical beasts and glamorous fairy tales. But life was not a fairy tale, and so it waited. Gone were the days of sticky spit-coated fingers clinging to the plush armrests. Gone were the days of echoing laughter and quiet smiles. Gone were the days of joy and happiness and splendor—the things that made life the golden chalice that it was. The crimson red liquid had spilled out of the brilliant chalice, and now all that was left were the minuscule drops of liquid that still held on. But soon they would be washed away and forgotten, just as the chair had been.

Rotting.

Fading.

Perfect decay.

It couldn’t quite recall the faces of those that used to fill the empty space that had become the chair’s tomb. It figured that perhaps that was alright, chairs really only remembered sound anyways. Why should a chair even bother to remember a face? A chair outlives each and every person that ever takes the time to enjoy it.

Faces are meaningless.

Sounds last forever.

But even forever is a finite amount of time.

A spider cascaded down from the ceiling and landed on the chair. Its tiny legs never hesitated or changed direction as it walked. It seemed to know exactly where it was going, as if some force was pulling it. But where it was being pulled too, the chair did not know. The spider on the other hand, knew exactly where it was headed. Its path was all laid out for it. It was to scramble down to the ground, over to the door, slide under the crack, and creep into the house. The garage had been deserted for a long time now.

But the house seemed alive.

Alive with the smell of death.

Time isn’t as concrete of a thing as forever. Time is forever, but forever is time. They’re one in the same, but time is always there, always watching from its tower. Forever isn’t a being. Just a concept that humans invented to make sense of their minuscule lives. A concept that both the chair and the spider understood.

But neither understood time.

The chair felt as though it had been waiting forever, but who is to say that forever isn’t just a few weeks? The spider felt as though it had been born forever ago, but who is to say that forever isn’t just a couple of days? They thought that they understood forever.

But forever is time.

And time isn’t always forever.

Who is to judge what forever truly is?

Perhaps the chair.

Perhaps the spider.

Or perhaps, time itself.

But time doesn’t care much for forever.

The spider had scurried itself all the way to the crack of the door. It was going to go in, it really was, but the force stopped tugging on the spider. Maybe the spider wasn’t supposed to go any further. Maybe time had wanted to spare it.

But time spares no one.

And so the spider went in.

At first the house seemed empty. There was no wind howling at the windows. There were no children stomping all over the bone-white carpet. There were no bugs buzzing around the yellow lights that hung from the ceiling at awkward angles. The spider would have been ignored by the inhabitants (if they had still been around) like most spiders are. They are ignored and overlooked, until they make themselves known. Then they are swiftly killed. They don’t even have time to run away or to be terrified.

They don’t even have time.

They don’t have time.

Time.

As the spider traveled further, it started to notice little things, such as the bit of crimson wallpaper peeling off in the living room, or the empty pill bottle that lie open on the scratched wood floor. It started to walk up the stairs. Its small legs almost betrayed it for a second, but after a moment’s rest it was able to climb again. With every step it took, it saw the world of the house from a whole new angle.

The house was a world of its own.

But the world was not the house.

The spider kept going, kept stretching its legs and lifting its small body of night. Was it nighttime? The spider did not know. The house still had a buzz to it, the buzz of electricity, but also the buzz of life. Both had begun to fade.

Both were drawing their final breaths.

And maybe the spider was too.

But who is to say?

Despite its aching legs, it kept traveling on. The top of the stairs were in its view now, and before long it had clambered up the final mountain. Now what? The spider waited. Where had the force gone?

But wait.

It was still there.

Just fading.

Yes, it was still there.

The arms of the force were tired and brittle but yet it still held its grip on the spider.

And so the spider walked on.

It came to a halt abruptly, after only a few strides. Why it had come to a stop, it didn’t know. And so it waited. As it lie in waiting it looked around. A doorway stood before it. The door had been left ajar, and instead of bone white carpet, the carpet was gray in color. The spider wasn’t sure if that was because of dust, or if that was just the natural color of it. Then it saw something tan among the gray. Could it be…? Yes. It was a hand. The hand was connected to an arm. Which was connected to the rest of a body. The body was whole and complete, but yet it still seemed broken.

And that’s when it clicked.

The buzz of electricity quieted.

The buzz of life that had clung onto that body quieted.

Why had it clung on for so long?

Surely the woman had passed long, long before the spider entered.

But who is to say?

Then everything begun again.

It was much stronger this time. Electricity and life seeped into the spider’s bones, into the spider’s veins, into the spider’s lungs and heart. And the life did too. The life didn’t quite feel like it belonged to the spider, and yet something about it was oddly familiar.

And then it was full and enveloping and complete.

The spider saw.

The spider remembered.

It remembered that night where it clutched the pill bottle in its hands which had been turned pale with time. Things had been different then. It had had a name.

Raven.

That had been its name.

And it had a family.

A house.

So many things.

But all good things come with terrifying things.

The spider—or Raven, as she had been known just a few days before—could taste the memory. It was sour and rancid and reeked of spoiled fairytales. If only things had been different. If only things had been different then she wouldn’t have been hurt. If she had kept her mouth shut, he wouldn’t have hit her. If she had run faster or screamed louder, then maybe he wouldn’t have caught up to her. If he never touched her, then she wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t have been so terrified that she shoved all those pills down her throat to try and forget. She wouldn’t have had to sit down on the floor when her heart started pounding in its cage and her throat started to close up. She wouldn’t have fallen to the ground, with the words I’m sorry, dying on her lips. She wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be trapped in the body of a spider, and wishing for her own body back. She would be alive.

But maybe when he touched her was when she died.

So maybe, time had already taken her, before her body let go.

Forever is time.

But time is forever.

She knew that now, as she watched the body that had previously been hers. She would hold onto these memories forever. All the time in the world couldn’t keep forever at bay.

Time will always be waiting to recycle her into something new.

The body forgets.

But the memories last forever.

And as long as time keeps ticking,

Forever will be waiting.

this short story belongs to rottingghost. do not copy or alter my work in any way. reblogging is okay as long as you don’t claim it as your own.

You asked me if I remembered, but the answer was almost always “no.” You asked me how I was, but the answer was almost always “I don’t know.” You asked me so many things. The words bubbled out of your mouth and spilled into the air. They spun and twirled towards me before bursting into nothingness, with my cold bony fingers being the cause of their destruction.

No.

I don’t remember.

I don’t know.

I’m sorry.

My fingers like needles burst every well-meaning bubble you sent my way. The bubbles emerged less and less often, slowly becoming smaller and smaller, before they faded into nothingness. You pulled me close and whispered softly in my ear. But your whispers weren’t loud enough to chase away the monsters that scratched at the door of my empty house of memories. They licked and hissed and burst with rage. Their shrieks shattered glass and tore through delicate curtains of corduroy daydreams. Putrid black slime oozed from their torn flesh. Scratches tangled over their sullen faces and deep wounds puked out silver shiny shimmering blood. Empty eye sockets sunk into their fading flesh and painted smiles of razor-sharp pearls dripped down their faces.

Help.

Everything’s fuzzy.

I can’t see.

I’m sorry.

The monsters seeped into my ears, soaked through my eyes, and bled into my mouth. They ripped apart my vocal chords, fiber by fiber, until I could no longer utter a single word.

Powerless, I became.

They oozed into my vision, blocking out the light of your smile. They poked and prodded at my eardrums until all that echoed through my mind was the shrieks of his words. I have to stay. I have to stay. I can’t remember. I can’t go back.

But you see, monsters exist only to torture every thread of a person’s being.

They aren’t human enough to be bothered by screams of terror.

They were made to rip and scratch and bite at the fabric of a person’s memory until it is destroyed beyond repair.

They exist to inflict pain.

They exist, to crush the souls of the innocent.

And crush they did.

Millions of tiny shards of broken and lost souls covered their misshapen hands. They tore through my flesh and dug and dug and dug until they found what they were looking for—my still-beating heart.

It’s still beating to this day.

But I am not.

Broken and torn, I cough up blood on tiles of ice. My insides burn with the fire of a million forgotten memories and a hundred terrifying moments that I wish I could forget. My arms scratch against the tile in an attempt to move me closer to the dilapidated cardboard box in the corner of the musty room. Colorful smiles drip from the cardboard and blurry photographs coat the outside. Their faces are unrecognizable.

Who are they? I do not know.

Who am I? I do not know.

They taunt and dance and mock me, their melting faces reminding me of nothing.

Nothing.

No.

I don’t remember.

I don’t know.

I’m sorry.

The jagged tiles cut into my arms as I slowly inch myself closer.

And closer.

And closer.

Until finally, I arrive.

With what remaining strength I have left, I feebly fumble for the flaps of the cardboard box. They’re pushed aside, and alas, the box’s contents are exposed for all to see. The distorted image of my face dances and tangles between shards of broken glass. Small and broken I appear. Pain coats my face in a poison. My eyes fade into nothingness and blood dots my cracked lips. As if on its own will, my hand dives into the glass. My mouth tries to scream, to shout, to yell, to say anything, anything that would make them notice. That would make them see.

But my vocal chords have long been torn to pieces by the monsters that lurk in my empty house of memories.

Jagged and ruthless, the glass cuts and shreds what little remains of my flesh.

There.

My hands grasp a thumping, beating thing. It radiates with electricity and pulses under my touch.

Badum badum.

Badum badum.

Badum badum.

It’s rhythmic sound pulses through my veins and crashes through my skull and into my brain. It screeches with rage and an uncontrollable fiery.

Badum badum. Badum badum.

Badum badum. Badum badum.

Badum badum. Badum badum.

Faster still it beats and pulses and thrives to a beat that is not heard by man but yet it alone knows.

Badum badum. Badum badum. Badum badum.

Badum badum. Badum badum. Badum badum.

Badum badum. Badum badum. Badum badum.

Expanding. Vibrating. Evermore it survives. Deceivingly beautiful glass shards have surrounded it, suffocated it for eons and yet it still pulses. It was torn out of its residence long, long ago.

And yet.

It lives.

Every bone and every muscle in my body goes into the final push, the final crescendo.

Badum badum. Badum Badum. Badum badum. Badum badum.

I grip the slimy, determined thing and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until, in a triumph at last, crimson red liquid coats every inch of my paper-white hands. Blood trickles and oozes out of the vile thing, covering the glass shards and making my reflection seem as though it is staring back at me through a pool of spilled red wine. The noise has finally come to a halt.

Nothingness.

Silence.

Not even the sounds of my breathe can be heard in the dimly lit space. A spider twists and spirals down from its finely woven web. Dust jumps from its place on the web and flies into the sickeningly silent air. The spider gently flutters onto my fingers just as I begin to fall.

A crash.

A crack.

The whisper of eyelids closing for the final time.

Then everything fades to black.

And I am home.

this short story belongs to rottingghost. do not copy or alter my work in any way. reblogging is okay as long as you don’t claim it as your own.