Makes a Beast of Himself

A very brief story written in a delirious state.

He roamed the catacombs of the thriving city, the wandering blood-soaked carnage-laden eviscerated idol of death walked among the living, nobody turned but everyone looked, nobody stopped but everyone saw, and so often was there an utter or a mutter or a gasp or a grasp towards what the hell this man was doing, but when the man looked up, when the killer saw what was before him there was naught but dust. When the people saw they vanished, and when they vanished it seemed that they never even existed!

So long had he come to this journey. So it had all come to this, he thought. It had all made sense up until that last moment. And the one before that. And that. Hell, he wonders if any of it made sense to begin with. It started with something nice, but it was tarnished over time, like most things are. Father Time takes careful notice of his children’s goings and there was nothing he could do to stop what has already been set in motion, he was merely the keeper of this domain, this realm was untouchable, unforgivable, and unnoticeable in an infinite mirror of void and null. He roamed.

What brought him to this circumstance? He had fulfilled everything. There was nothing to kill nobody to hide no bodies to hide certainly not and nothing to kill anymore was the most important. No bodies, no people, scent of copper, can’t help it, making him SICK.

Gripping broken blade and he dropped it. Blood swished and evaporated into clouds of smoke around him that stroke the tip of his nose and fill his mind with the sickly sweet odor of rot.

Nothing to live for? Maybe he had something, he just can’t remember it.

It seemed so nice in the beginning. Here, kill the target, said the suit! Oh he killed. Didn’t like it but grew used to it. Needed more challenge in fact. Wanted to taste it again. Chase the magic dragon, the bleeding dragon, screaming, catch it CATCH IT CATCH IT, KILL THE SUIT that’ll make it better. Try to find it all again but end up on your knees neck-deep in the bodies. Augh be free of the bodies. They’ll never know because they, above, are the bodies, too.

He staggered through the hallway and was covered in wounds. The wounds of the wounded, ironic? Yes. The last cries and plucks and nibbles of the last slice of the cheese of life, all on his end. All in one rush the murderer reaped with no stop.

He collapsed on the floor. The cold concrete wet sidewalk was burning him. Nobody was watching but everyone was looking. Oh my, should we do something? Muttered a lady. No, answered the tall husband, let him figure out what to do on his own time, and so they left, and never remembered him again. Unfiltered awareness.

The man heaved and vomited. That was the last part of his humanity remaining. His anchor was lifted. The wounds laughed in a gurgling symphony. They gathered, they formed, they stretched across the surface of him, writhing beneath his skin and shifting themselves all while cackling in his misfortune. The murderer couldn’t reciprocate the joy if he wanted to, he was in such unbearable pain he could only think of the relief that death would soon bring. Oh sweet cool concrete, take me to your earthly prison! Release me in captivity! thought he, but the concrete was silent. His fingers trembled and bones crawled, He could feel it growing inside of him, grabbing at his precious mind with wirecutters and shearing away like confetti. His organs spilled on the floor, and he could feel his flaming hot entrails tear away and collapse onto the wet asphalt with splatters and thuds. Of all of the thoughts the murderer had as a man, the last one he ever had was “I should’ve kept those in there.”

His spine cracked. The wounds had gathered, had piled up to dig into his flesh leaving spots bare and smooth, creating a hole of which no light was brought in. A hole that had only a spine for support, that last semblance of humanity and strength and pride, shuddering and quivering as its nerves fired and struggled to keep his body intact. Useless!

The wounds festered and bubbled. Amongst the frothing crimson, his muscle wrapped together in tight knots. They budged from underneath his exposed spine, tantalizingly slipping its fibers around his exposed membranes with deliberate torment, forming a listless, throbbing tumor. It grew, supporting the spine underneath. Eventually it stretched it, the crackles were proof of it wearing thin, and all too suddenly, the spine shattered. The bones popped and crumbled on the floor. No voice was heard. The murderer was not dead. He was changing to what he really was.

The tumor weaved and bobbed and gurgled, grew higher and higher, the murderer’s skin flattening and hollowing leaving naught but a boney husk behind as his muscle grew from the top like a tower with no peak, only a forever-writhing head. It spouted appendages and teeth. Its jaw unhinged, its few teeth lay ragged on its bleeding gumline, and its black twisted mind beamed hot light from the twin dark holes on its parody of a face. It saw the world from within the man, and now, it finally saw the world without.

And then it howled in pain.

Author's Note

not really looking for any advice on coherent plot, this was mostly an exercise on description, so feel free to critique on if i didn't describe anything enough.