07-08-2020, 08:32 AM
cw: decay, parasites, & insects. general squeamishness
Like ink in milk, he blooms.
Yellowed teeth bared, lips drawn back, frozen in a smile. His legs, greasy and caked with old blood carry him to the little group that has gathered here, saliva rolling off his tongue and dangling, dripping. His face and body are pockmarked in scars, old and new, from his time as host to many living squirming beasts that he tenderly invites into his flesh. He is a fresh slate now, but flies still buzz. Cockroaches still settle on his brow, tasting rotten flesh. He has experienced a new baptism, his body unmarred for weeks, only to begin again, the process of being infected. Of letting infection and infestation take root.
It is a process and an art, to watch a body decay before your eyes. To understand that it is your body decaying. To watch insects that herald rot occupy your body and mind, to watch your body become a feast to a million little creatures so much smaller and weaker. To incubate and let thrive every little thing that your mother has ever feared. He exists to house corruption, to serve corruption alone, to taste death his whole life and let the process thrill him. To let it enthrall him.
At Gael's call, he is here. He sidles up along Silent, orange eyes burning into the others that had arrived. More alive than ever. The closest he has ever felt.
"I will join this game as well."
There were much worse games to play.
Like ink in milk, he blooms.
Yellowed teeth bared, lips drawn back, frozen in a smile. His legs, greasy and caked with old blood carry him to the little group that has gathered here, saliva rolling off his tongue and dangling, dripping. His face and body are pockmarked in scars, old and new, from his time as host to many living squirming beasts that he tenderly invites into his flesh. He is a fresh slate now, but flies still buzz. Cockroaches still settle on his brow, tasting rotten flesh. He has experienced a new baptism, his body unmarred for weeks, only to begin again, the process of being infected. Of letting infection and infestation take root.
It is a process and an art, to watch a body decay before your eyes. To understand that it is your body decaying. To watch insects that herald rot occupy your body and mind, to watch your body become a feast to a million little creatures so much smaller and weaker. To incubate and let thrive every little thing that your mother has ever feared. He exists to house corruption, to serve corruption alone, to taste death his whole life and let the process thrill him. To let it enthrall him.
At Gael's call, he is here. He sidles up along Silent, orange eyes burning into the others that had arrived. More alive than ever. The closest he has ever felt.
"I will join this game as well."
There were much worse games to play.