An original fiction. | About the story | Artworks | The english translation is now complete, all chapters in pinned post (original french text here) | Main: @rhan-hastur
The text is also available as a PDF download >here<, if tumblr's formatting isn't your cup of tea.
🇫🇷 Quant à la version originale fr, ça se passe >ici<
General trigger warning for horror, and all the themes that are to be expected within the genre. More specific warnings below the cut if you don't mind spoilers:
Content warnings:
Main themes: death, grief.
Graphic depictions: violence / gore / body horror, self-harm / suicide.
And although I'm a bit on the fence about putting this under graphic depiction, know that sexual assault is implied throughout - the only (somewhat) explicit scenes woud be a notable body horror metaphor in ch.18, and a short catacomb scene in ch.22-1.
Underlying themes: religious trauma / abuse, addiction.
Additional CW: homophobia (most specifically Hollow Hills chapters starting ch.11), some mild nsfw and sexual content, creepy crawlies.
Look! Look at that scraggly wet rat of a man, truly the most accurate depiction of him to have ever graced this blog
Sketch comm by the wonderful @beidak-art !
I know my way through the night to your door
You know the blood that I'm owed is all yours
The wishes I've made are too vicious to tell
The devil already he knows me so well
Zenith ; ruthless, my persecutor lazes high in the sky. The blades of a fan are droning, white noise lulling me to sleep as I watch, absent-minded, the hypnotic ripples of a poster across the partition – silhouette outlined by the halo of a light above, a title, blood-red, your favorite movie – and the geometrical patterns of shutters glowing over the tiled-floor, incandescent crucifixes edged with shades of cold.
Outside, the sound of bones rattling in the breeze echoes through the window left ajar. Funeral mobile, scavenged possession.
The shining of glass on the table; a swig of cool water.
On the wall, the mirror reflects a faint shadow. My gaze shifts to a polaroid, frayed age, ashes inside a metal urn permeated with the stench of gasoline; wilted memories, vacant years. Do you forgive me?
I feel it crawling at my feet, your darkness, creeping into my sanctuary, all around and in me; flayed, charred sinews and knucklebones; its coils lick at my skin, invade, penetrate my throat, gird the fragile bars of my ribcage before asphyxiating me.
Then come the cracks; the rupture.
The sound of bones crackling, the sound of bones cackling, of my ribs in agony, of the hands that tear me apart and burn my rotting carcass from within; myriads of white splinters, death mask, backlit face pressed against the pane.
I open my eyes and smother the embers of yet another cigarette.
On the wall, the mirror reflects a quiet grave. The caress of smoke, your ghost, omnipresent, the sound of my bones rattling in the breeze against shards of glass; a swig of kerosene.
Summer has come once more.
[EDIT: Added the english translation, original french below:]
Un jour d'été (Annexe Hollow Hills)
Zénith ; impitoyable, mon bourreau paresse haut dans le ciel. Les pales d’un ventilateur ronronnent, me bercent de leur bruit blanc tandis que j’observe, absent, les ondulations hypnotiques d’une affiche sur la cloison – une silhouette découpée dans le halo d’une lumière en amont, un titre rouge, sanguin, ton film favori – et les entrelacs géométriques des persiennes mi-closes sur le carrelage, crucifix incandescents ourlés d’ombres froides.
Le cliquetis des os qui s’entrechoquent dans la brise résonne de l’extérieur, depuis la fenêtre entrouverte. Un mobile funéraire, possession charognarde.
Scintillement du verre sur la table ; une gorgée d’eau fraîche.
Sur le mur, le miroir reflète une ombre indistincte. Mon regard fuyant tombe sur le polaroid d’une ère à vif, cendres dans une urne de métal aux relents d’essence ; souvenirs fanés, années vacantes. Me pardonnes-tu ?
Je les sens ramper au sol, tes ténèbres, s’insinuer dans mon sanctuaire, tout autour, en moi ; phalanges et tendons écorchés, calcinés ; leurs volutes viennent me lécher la peau, pénétrer ma gorge, m’envahissent, ceignent les barreaux fragiles de ma cage thoracique avant de m’asphyxier.
Puis les fêlures ; les brisures.
Cliquetis des os qui craquent, cliquetis des os qui ricanent, de mes côtes au supplice, des mains qui m’écartèlent et consument ma charogne de l’intérieur ; myriade d’esquilles, masque mortuaire, visage en contre-jour, pressé contre la glace.
J’ouvre les yeux et étouffe les braises d’une énième cigarette.
Sur le mur, le miroir reflète une tombe silencieuse. La caresse de la fumée, ton fantôme, omniprésent, le cliquetis de mes os et des tessons de verre qui s’entrechoquent dans la brise ; une gorgée de kérosène.
Something a bit different, but that might interest quite a few people on here!
These are some of the pictures I took this morning at the galerie Valérie Delaunay in Paris, of the exposition Le Dernier Souper (The Last Supper) by artist Corine Borgnet, who works mainly with bones and jesmonite to create her vanitas.
It’s still up for a week, I’d recommand seeing these in person if you’re nearby! Really intricate and beautiful work with a touch of macabre.
