#mimic

The lonesomeness of the high mountains could be crippling, but it was being around your menace of a husband that truly made life there hard. He was the only man in your clan who would take you, and your family would rather lie in their graves to rot than send off one of their own to a traitorous neighboring village.

None of that mattered now, when you were so far from any form of companionship or civilization, your desperation leading to the point of grasping at the few straws your distant, cold husband would offer.

But that man wasn't here, not in this house. What remained of his hollow vessel was unholy, a beast of small resemblance.

The details were all there: dirty off-white field shirt, cracked leather suspenders, even the strong gash of scar across his knuckles, the one that gripped the reins so tightly they twisted in his fingers.

"You're home." Was all you could mutter.

Not, 'where have you been' or 'I was worried sick;' when speaking to your husband, most words would float right past him.

The mud on his boots slid against the oak floors, leaving a wet, thumping sound as he trudged through the living room. Small remains in the fireplace was left in glowing embers, dying flames casting shadows upon your husband's face.

You had never stared long at anything above his shoulders, either out of worry of him striking you for doing so, or maybe fear of finding him repulsive to look at, knowing he was all you had until your life's end.

But seeing him now, his face didn't look much different. A sharp frown turned down his lips, his strong nose inhaling, exhaling so quietly you might not hear him breathe in a silent room; but his chest heaved in wild ups and downs.

Another step forward. The front door was left open, and you could see the summer fireflies landing on the porch outside. A shallow dirt line followed his trail up the steps, as if his boots had been sliding in the dirt all the way home.

You held the oil lamp further away from your face, illuminating the dirt smeared across his. His hair was slick, covering his eyes like dripping ink.

"Want a bath?"

You spoke louder, voice still hoarse from sleep. He didn't look right, and it wasn’t just the dirtiness. Was there some sort of attacker that shook him? maybe a steep fall from one of the narrow roads down the hill?

Not quite...  there was something deeper under his skin that was inherently different. His smell, like that of petrichor and iron. As he moved, one arm swung lower than another, his back hunched in a way that made him look broader.

As he walked, his leg cracked in such a loud pop it almost made you jump. Splatters of dark speckled his cotton shirt, becoming brighter as he neared.

It was like watching an injured animal try to scoot itself deeper into the forest, letting itself suffer rather than stop to spare the pain. But instead of a creature trying to escape, he was languidly dragging himself at you.

"You sound... tired. You should get to bed."

Despite the gnawing sense of dread beginning to curl in your stomach, you stood your ground, half of your body leaning from out of your shared bedroom. You'd do your spousal duties, take care of him, so long as he stopped scaring you. 

As you listened to him, you realized Bettie couldn't be heard in her stall, and there were no hoove prints following the fresh trail of mud near the front door. Where had she gone? Had he lost her in the high mountains, leaving my her to roam aimlessly in the wide plains?

Or maybe, something had gotten her, your husband barely making it out himself; it would certainly explain the state he was in.

His body cracked with each aching move, back twisting in a way where his ribs jutted beneath his skin, twisting again for his left leg to snap back in place. Before you knew it, his face was hovering, drifting only inches away. Along the dry wall his hand grazed to create a black streak, sliding over the only picture you kept of your wedding day. He was so tall he barely fit in the yellowed picture; though his height was noteable, it never scared you until tonight.

Along with it, his hands... they hung low to the ground, the one resting upon the wall now coming towards you. It grasped foreward for you, opposite to the oil lamp in your grip. Dirt and something thick, like molasses, was stuck beneath his fingernails.

"Mmhn..."

Something guttural came from his lips, his mouth parting with a black thickness foaming at the corner. It glued between his teeth, swallowing his tongue as it drooled down his chin.

This wasn't him. It was his body-- or atleast what you could remember of it. They were pieces of him but they didn't fit right. He looked like a corpse left forgotten and dunked in oil, but he smelled only of rainwater and highland grass, nothing dead following him. Yet, the smell on his hands, the one that came to rest upon your cheek, cupping at your jaw, it was like rotting flesh.

His fingers rigidly stroked your cheek, using his thumb to smear a mixture of black beneath your eye. So cold, the touch sent a shock down to your feet, leaving you frozen still.

You might've not known your husband, not his voice or a solid memory of his face. But this was... something from outside. Someone. But it wasn't the man who promised to hold you in sickness and health.

A wet smear from his finger drew down your lip, the caress so gentle and inexplicably foreign.

Through the croak of his chest, he strained to speak through the black trenches of his mouth.