I breathe into your ear, my voice low, twisted.
Blazing, flushed, swollen. Clammy, shivering, pinkish, your hilariously turgid cheeks quiver with every half muffled, discordant squeal of horror you choke out of that abused, slobbering gullet.
God, just the pitiful sight of you makes me fucking laugh, my dying slaughter pig.
They’re intoxicating, your syrupy tears that sear your burning, engorged face. I can almost lick off the saccharine terror that oozes through your dulled down stare, drenching your absurdly chilling yelps in a viscous, sweet veil. A shard of raw emotion and buried conscience desperately claws out through the cries, melting into the suffocating darkness of the room.
I teasingly trace down your cold forehead, pinching your face and you attempt to wince, your sugary tears sinking into my hands as I smile down at you perversely. I feel your bruised, rotting, sludge filled flesh, dragging a finger along your freshly branded title ‘Pig’, caressing the darkened blood stains that linger around those shameful letters. I’m met with discordant sobs diluted by inhumane snorts, soaking in the despair you decay in.
You lie there, pitiful, smothered in tubs of cheap white frosting, thickened grease that hisses on your jolting chest, sticky dollops of chocolate smeared around, all glazed with your hollow pig tears. The casing of the bariatric casket gnaws at your raw, blistering adipose, the gleaming wooden casing silken to the touch.
You really do look ridiculous, pleading and choking on your own gelatinous tears, waiting, crying. Profound agony strangles you, squeezing your slop filled, engorged little heart. Too bad, piggy. It’s time.
2087
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