Blows tiny kisses, maybe some are for the wörm. Maybe they are all for Jane. Who knows. (From the wife obviously not the bastard.)
random lesbian asks, always accepting || @twistingdeception
HAVE YOU ever heard a worm laugh? Obviously not. In the same vein you can’t hear a worm talk, can’t even begin to fathom what its voice would sound like - if it’d speak via a voice at all - nor what replacement for words and letters and guttural sounds it’d use. Let alone trying to comprehend how an entire colony would talk, or the hive it inhabits. If asked, Jane could at least provide some explanation about this latter hypothesis, in some way. Saying that it’s no voice like anyone knows it, but rather a melody that can’t be quite described, vibrations that sound similar to words but share nothing with them and yet still enter your bloodstream and the gaps between your veins and your flesh, in the hollows where maggots will rest when they come to feed on your rotting corpse, and tug at your mind and nestle there and make room for themselves there, humming and singing in buzzes. A pity that she doesn’t talk much these days anymore. A pity certain sensations are too endless to be described.
But, a laugh. So simpler and so much more complex. When Jane opens her mouth in a wide grin, what comes out doesn’t feel like laughter, at least not at first. A cacophony, hundreds of thousands of tiny creatures pinching at her vocal chords and mimicking the sound bouncing between the walls of her throat. A cascade not so much different from the black goo she could vomit if needed. (Not now. Not now.) It takes it a few seconds more to be reshaped in a more comprehensible noise, although far from human still. Familiar, perhaps. Of this world, very much not.
However... yes. Scratch all the grotesque and unsettling off, lend a less terrified ear to that echoed and re-echoed sound, and it might indeed sound as if, for the first time in so long, Jane Prentiss was laughing.
