We Didn't Die Like This

Run.

Run until you can't see these stars of atrocity. Run until the tears dry off your back. Run until madness sees the error of its ways. Just run.

The garden of Tru'Nembra sits bleak and weary, a solid husk of warped dissonances. A mass of gnarled oak stumbles and shrieks, scaling the cliffs and valleys. A cloud dissipates. What brings this water down? Some trick of the mind, a fallacy tucked between crumpled rows of parchment. This is not true. Close your eyes. Run.

Her back was turned. A long slender blade finds its homeward sheath, ceasing her breaths in silently slipping seconds.

But this is not what waits in the gardens! This is not Eden, so pure and fragrant of delicacy. A potpourri of bliss and... and lies. Yes, but... no, this truth cannot be chilled in shadow for days further. Instead, we shall welcome it into our hearts, a thudding revelation to cherish nihilism.

Good God, child, run.

 

Edgar Manse rose from his slumber, stretching his enfeebled frame. The time was 7:32. He would be late.

"Catherine, where is my suit?"

"Where did you leave it?"

"Here, on the chair."

"Then it shall be awaiting you on the chair."

"Why then is it absent?"

"For what Heaven should I know?"

Disgruntled, absent of suit and worn by years of passive outrage, he strode into the bathroom. Strode... is inadequate. He lumbered, as a bear waking from hibernation. Yet this bear never truly wakes, never shakes off the grip of dreaming in full. Instead, it whiles about in lethargic repose, a mockery of action. Kinetics be damned.

A shower was born. It was hot. For now... in mere moments this little blessing will fade and subside, becoming frigid and torturous. Thus begins the day again.

Edgar brushes his teeth, albeit poorly. Why worry oneself with such small insignificances? Should a fist of molten rage slam through this glass ceiling, who would care of your enamel? And the comb... well, the comb may rest forsaken. A disheveled beast is not one to trifle with, not on such a day as this. The dissection shall take place shortly. Sooner than he arrives, surely, but there will be some minor cause for celebration.

The thing was wickedly warped. Long, ponderous appendages (Six in all) surround the torso and terminate in surreally angled claws. The primary means of locomotion appears to be a single massive pseudopod at the base, which generates a constant ooze for quite some time after expiration. The trunk rises steeply, ending in a maw of razors and ocular spheres. All in all, the being is roughly 11 feet in length from tip to tip.

They weren't informed of where this thing was acquired, nor were they permitted to spread word of existence. The harshest of penalties has been not so subtly implied. The job was merely to perform an autopsy and relay whatever knowledge could be gleaned from the carcass.

"Hurry!"

"I am! It's not like your badgering ever accomplishes anything... and where in existence is my suit!?"

"Where did you leave it?"

"Here, on the chair."

"Then it awaits you on the chair."

"Were that true, would I be inquiring?"

"Possibly, seeing as you a blasted fool."

Ah... a blasted fool indeed, that he was. Just another fool, imprisoned for 37 years. Luckily, an appeal has been granted, and things may swiftly turn for the better. Oh, yes, yes...

Breakfast, if you can call it that, was cold and stale. It was skipped on the way to the car, leaving it to catalyze a later argument. The engine roared to life. Edgar Manse departed.

 

"No, no, no, no, no... please don't kill me... I didn't do anything to you... what do you want? Anything..."

Anything is such an open ended word to be used as your last. Shouldn't one reserve that honor for something more dignified? More profound? Instead, this nobody has wasted such a perfect opportunity on a word with no meaning in context.

Gary began to slice the drifter apart, spacing each piece above the fire. Soon, he shall have a bountiful feast.

 

The radio was full of noise. Might as well be static. Bach would approve.

It was a gray morning, all dew and yawning. Few were about, and none were disruptive or harried in the least sense. Thus it came as a total change of pace when the SUV collided.

The entire passenger side crumpled like wet paper, spraying glass and shrapnel whilly nilly. Cloth tore, spilling foam-like blood upon the ruinous terrain. Sundry bits made their way into his eye, across his face, tearing and shredding as they went. A metal bar of some irrelevant function tore free of the grill and plunged towards its inevitable victim. Blood from the offending pilot spiraled through the air in amusingly playful shapes and strokes. The beam impaled his throat and lodged into the driver side door, sending miniscule chips of esophagus through the atmostphere.

Edgar Manse was dead. His last thought, "I should have shot my wife."

Author's Note

If you find any glaring errors, please point them out. I'm under sway of a sleeping pill at that moment, so... that's not happening, hehe. And yes, it's supposed to be really choppy and seemingly incoherent.

Reviews

[Zissors]

I thought it was really good, the descriptions were excellent. Making it choppy seemed to fit. The only mistake I could find was within the last setence:

"HIs last thought"
HIs should be His, and that can be easily fixed. Besides that I couldn't find a single thing wrong with it. I loved it.

Thanks for posting.

[ICE]

I wanted there to be more...You should seriously write a novel. I honestly think that you would be amazing...even better than Dean Koontz. :P

[Alphachad]

Now this was a good one. I liked the conversations and the description a picture of mystery. Good ending too. Keep it up :D