I've written a Statement for The Magnus Archives, involving The Desolation for any of those who would be interested to read it. Takes place during season 4, no story specific spoilers I just needed Jon to be at the height of his power and understanding for the structure of this one to work.
C: Good evening listeners, it's good to be back in your ears. The Library- Sorry, the 'Athenaeum' Staff and I have been suffering from some. . . minor tech issues.
But that's all over now, and hopefully as many as you could all read my post about the new way we'll be delivering you these episodes — I know, I know, who uses cassettes anymore? I promise this is just a temporary fix until we can find something more... versatile.
Till then, we're going old fashioned, but really, isn't that just like us? Fielding has always been about looking back to look forward. Our dear Chancellor Montague is always saying we need to "See the past so we can know the future," or something like that anyways.
But enough about all that, I know what your hungry minds are after — tonight's reading! This little number has been floating around the Library's halls for a good while now.
So without further delay, lets dive into the first chapter of, The King of Roses.
Post Chapter Review —
C: Horror, then. I've been wondering where we'd put this old thing when we finally found all its pages. From the graphic descriptions of torture and budding tones psychological despair, I'm sure it can easily be but into our Young-Adult/Horror section.
It may be the dust, or maybe even the repeating descriptions of smells in this piece, or hell it could just be the weather, but my allergies are not happy after reading this! I can make out the faintest hint of. . . rust. I'll have have to ask Agnes about checking the pipes in this old place. . .
But with that, our episode ends, my dear listeners. Hopefully I will be gracing your ears with another spooky tale very soon!
[Previous Installment]
OOC Under the cut:
Howdy, how do you like that then? The 'statements' of this AU are going to be mostly short stories or autobiographical snippets instead of factual retellings of horrific events! I think it fits the library ≠ archive thing, plus it means I can get very weird with the stories!
I included the external link to the Ao3 page the chapter to the manuscript is posted because I'm not sure if too many people would want to read a whole horrific short story, still its there to read if you like! The shorts are both hinting at future events, setting the stage for what comes next, but also just some fucked up original stories that have been bouncing around in my head.
But besides the chapter, anyone notice a new player get added to the board? Find out more next time :)
I wrote a new fanfiction, playing with themes of the lonely, the extinction, and most importantly to the many who have talked about dirt underrepresentation, the buried.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I do warn, there is some suicidal ideation/a descriptor of a failed attempt. It plays in the typical of the magnus archives but still.
*Well finally, this is the end of my series of TMA inspired short stories. I hope you enjoy this one! I really struggled to think of something original for The Hunt, hence why I left it for last, but I think this is quite good!*
The Ozzy Statements Episode 15: Love Of The Game
Statement of Deuteronomy Greyrock regarding his encounters with a smiling creature deep below ground. Original statement given November 16th 1936. Recorded by Ozzy, The Archivist.
Statement begins.
I must preempt this tale with an acknowledgement of my own stupidity. None of this would have taken place, were it not for my unyielding hubris. Alas it must be said, this all took place when I foolishly delved within the catacombs of my ancestral manor.
Upon his death, my patriarchal grandfather - Maynard Greyrock - bequeathed to me nothing at all, in fact most of the assets went to my father. I was, I dare say rightfully, a fair bit disappointed as I believed that I had grown quite close to Maynard near the end. I would spend many a weekend helping him tinker in his workshop, and many an evening listening to his great dramatic stories set in his youth. He would tell me of the catacombs hidden under the floor, where apparently he had explored whilst his parents were sleeping. On dark nights, lit by his gilded lantern in the living room, he would tell me of the unimaginable size of the place, while also speaking vaguely of a looming threat hidden there. He never described it more than that, just a presence which stalked from nowhere. Whenever I inquired as to its physical features or disposition, he would simply chuckle or sigh, “I don't want to give you nightmares, boy”
Apparently he found hints of a treasure down there once, in the form of some sort of map, however the creature started to chase him as soon as he picked it up. He tripped and stumbled, dropping the parchment, and got out with a concussion from falling on a rock. He was always very vague about this arguably very important aspect of his adventures, instead choosing to focus on the architecture down there and the ancient tombs he found. In the end, he told me, he locked the trapdoor to the catacombs with a heavy iron key, and hid it under some bulky furniture. He felt that as he was getting older, he couldn't risk the monster climbing out of its dungeon one night for a sort of revenge. He wouldn't be able to defend himself. I could always see, though, a little glint of disappointment in his eyes, and perhaps hope. As though he were waiting for the day he would delve back within.
But in the end, the old man succumbed to the cold wrinkly hands of death not by an otherworldly monster, but by the looming march of old age. Or at least that's what I was told, I never saw the body though. Indeed he wasn't extremely old in reality - only around 60 - yet he looked like a man of around 90. He never told me where his key was, nor of the exact place where the trapdoor lay, however I still believed his stories with my full heart. In all honesty, I felt rather betrayed upon seeing my non-existent inheritance. Surely I deserved to investigate what he had spent so long talking to me about. My heart and mind concurred to endeavor against any threat to seek a treasure I felt was my true inheritance.
So one humid night, a fortnight from his passing, I travelled to his manor, a structure I remembered as tall and imposing when I visited as a child. Those same feelings resounded within me as it loomed upon me from the foggy darkness. Naught but mice inhabited the place, for my father had made himself scarce via some important business trip, although I doubt he would have slept there anyway. My father isn't a superstitious man, but his relationship with Maynard was sufficiently abysmal to inspire within him a deep fear of him returning from the beyond to haunt him. Why Maynard gave him the house, I could never guess.
Either way, it also happened to be that the door was unlocked, it noisily creaked open at the slightest nudge, screaming bleakly upon the world to signal my intrusion. The inside was how I remembered it, albeit covered in a thin spattering of dust. And so, without hesitation I began looking.
Many of his possessions had already been taken, possibly either by my father or by thieves. Perhaps for this reason, I found no key after hours of searching. I did, though, discover the trapdoor, camouflaged in the floorboards beneath the bookcase.
Also, in the garage I found a weathered Winchester model 1897, which is a pump action shotgun that I was very surprised to find. My grandfather had never fought in the Great War, nor had he ever spoken at all about self defence or anything of the sort. I can only presume he bought it near the end, succumbing to anxiety even though the hatch was locked. Nevertheless the gun was very useful, as I pointed the long barrel towards the keyhole and blasted any suggestion of a preventative measure to smithereens. Through the splintered hole I heard the massive boom echoing through vast halls, and what sounded like wind wailing at my insolence. I lifted up the heavy wood door and saw a rusted ladder leading down into utter black. I remembered seeing grandfather's gilded lantern in another room, so I retrieved it, strapped the Winchester to my back, and ventured down.
This place was truly massive, the dancing lantern light scarcely licked the corners, and mountainous marble pillars, tarnished to time, birthed deep blankets of shadow behind. The floor seemed to be a sort of sandstone, eroded and crumbling insofar as the ground was saturated with loose stones which, when stepped through, begot a crunching static which reverberated infinitely down the path. The path itself was not only wide and tall, but had many turns and offshoots, much akin to a dark and cavernous labyrinth. Within many of the peripheral offshoots, there were simple stone rooms with modest tombs laying within. Etched into them were dates which seemed impossibly far into the past, and names scrawled in a language I've never seen before, and yet after all that time the sealing slabs upon all of them remained wholly undisturbed
For around the third time I walked into another largely uninteresting room of the dead, stepping further in to investigate. However, suddenly from behind I heard a harsh whisper, like a distant gust of wind. I turned back around and witnessed a glimpse of something very dark rushing around the corner of the doorway to the right, smooth as a liquidised shadow. Ever the curiously naive boy, I of course followed after it.
Alas, the massive corridor seemed empty, contingent on me not daring to imagine what might be lurking behind any one of the monstrous grey pillars. And so, comforted in the bosom of ignorance, I explored further into the unholy maze, my lantern desperately fighting against the dark veil which permeated the place. Many times I swore I saw a flickering shadow rushing from the wall, like a large skittering bug. And after a half dozen sightings, I could no longer convince myself that I was imagining the multitude of eyes which stared at me from that flickering shadow.
Still, I remained undeterred, and continued fervently checking each room and branch of the path. This artefact I was searching for was my inheritance and nothing would stop me from acquiring it. Interestingly, I began to realise that the further I went on, the less dilapidated the architecture and the more recent the dates on the tombs became. After a short time, the names were even written in what could have been a predecessor to English.
After around an hour, I reached a crossroads of sorts. To the left continued the usual marble pillared cavernous path, while right in front of me the floor - in a sort of gradient - transformed into gold, upon which was a shining pedestal. My greed overtook judgement, and I practically sprang upon what I saw placed upon it.
The map.
I grabbed it instantly and whipped my body around, surveying for the creature. My grandfather had said it attacked when he took the map, so I was very cautious. My eyes scanned from wall to wall, pausing on the pools of shadow behind each pillar. My breathing was erratic, but I didn't blink, I was ready to sprint at the slightest movement.
Then I heard a mocking whisper of wind. It did not come from down the hall. It did not come from behind the pillars. Inches behind my head I felt something, breathing, whispering, staring, stalking. Every fibre of muscle in my body froze, and I could do nothing as I felt a wet, scaly hand slowly grasp my shoulder. A possessive hand, rough uneven claws digging into the muscle. In shock, I forgot to keep hold of the map and it fell from my hand. The creature snarled, deep and wet, into my ear, and I finally snapped out of my horrified reverie. The gun, I had a gun. No, I wouldn't be able to reach it in time. Did it care about the map? No, I don't know enough. The gilded lantern! This was a creature bathed in shadow, surely it wouldn't react well to light. I fortunately had yet to drop it, and so with a savage determination I pushed myself forward while turning around with the lantern held high.
The claws, still pierced deep, had torn a chunk of gored flesh when I had lurched forward, but I hardly registered the pain as I looked at the thing which was before me.
The thing screamed at the light, as the shadows cloaking it melted away. Beneath I saw veins. Purple veins strung along grey skin, bulging. Copious legions of pulsating branches spread like vines beneath its moist rough skin. Worst of all was what was placed upon this monstrous form. The face was a mouth. A smiling mouth, with massive yellow tombstone teeth, which spread over every inch of its malformed head. In the middle of each of the teeth was an eye, red and piercing. Always looking. Always hunting.
The head shook, recovering from its daze, and with a gusting roar, its massive frame lurched forward into a beastial stance, on all fours, and began to chase. I ran, sprinted to the right - where the path continued further into the catacombs. The smiling beast leaped at me from behind, but by this point I had the gun in one hand, and used it like a bat to smash it away from me. It was knocked onto its side, sliding briefly on the floor, loose stones shunted into the walls. Very quickly it regained its footing and built inhuman speed, clambering towards me. I had ducked behind a pillar while it was down, and put my lantern on the ground to use the Winchester properly.
I leant from the pillar, instantly facing the smiling thing with its malevolent eyes as it launched towards me. I had barely any time to raise the gun, but somehow I managed to pull the trigger at the right time. A massive gaping hole was blown in its chest, shattering any organs and demolishing the veins there. Purple slop sputtered from the wound onto my face and clothes as it careened backwards. I was amazed, even humouring the possibility that it was actually dead. Unfortunately the fantasy didn't last for long, as the loose skin began to move on its own, and the veins began to swiftly grow over the crater. This wouldn't last. Worse, I realised that the shotgun I cradled like a saviour from God only had 1 more bullet.
With a quick exhale, I holstered my gun, picked up the lantern, ran back to pick up the map I had dropped, and began to read it while speed walking further down the corridor. Although I stopped in my tracks just as quickly, as the map made absolutely no sense. I had no idea what orientation it was in, what any of the markings meant, and there seemed altogether far too many branching paths. Then I looked at my surroundings and found the truth. This section of the catacombs had far more crossroads and winding paths than before, with rooms of tombs haphazardly placed between random corridors. In essence, it was a maze.
This didn't assist at all in the problem of reading the map, however, and so I foolishly spent at least 10 minutes wandering around, trying to find any potential landmark to use as a point of reference. However, looking at the maze on the map made me realise something very obvious, something anyone can use in any maze. So, I threw the map away and began to hug the left wall, always turning to the left and following it all the way round. Logically, this should lead me to the goal, as it means I wouldn't be going down paths I had already explored. Every so often I would hear a gust of air echoing from behind me, surely the smiling creature healing, or perhaps already stalking me once more, but I steadfastly kept going. As I trod on, I noticed the side of my face, and my shoulder, begin to subtly burn. Not literal flames of course, but where the creature's liquid had hit me began to feel like it was warping. Like the skin was sagging and rotting, as if bit by bit my flesh was dying.
I had no chance to give any more thought to this unpleasant sensation, as I stumbled upon the middle of the maze. I knew instantly because it was a titanically huge square room, with dull gold covering the walls, and a single pedestal in the middle. Cautiously, I scanned around for the monster and found nothing, but I got my gun out just in case, putting the lantern on the floor near the pedestal to use both hands. There was no great treasure on the grand plinth. Instead, there were words, engraved in gold upon a stone tablet:
“YE WHO FOOLISHLY SEEK, O INCESSANT PURSUER, THY TREASURE ART BEGOTTEN BETWIXT FALSEHOOD AND MISPLACED HOPE. GAZE NOW UPON THINE PREDATOR AND SEE A MIRROR, SEE ‘TIS A BRETHREN OF DESIRE. A HUNTER WHO SHALL STALK TO THE END, JUST AS THOU WOULDST”
As if on cue, the smiling demon crawled out from the hallway I entered from. I could not possibly fathom any metaphorical, philosophical nature of the situation at that moment, instead opting for self preservation by running. Indeed there was one other passage in the room, on the opposite end from the entrance, and so I hastily grasped the lantern and sprinted towards it. For the first time in this whole dungeon, the room had a door, so I flung myself in and smashed it closed. There were of course more tombs within, so I desperately pushed one over to the door, harshly scraping against the floor, in order to barricade it. The creature scraped and roared and banged at the door, but it was quite sturdy. I leant on one of the tombs, panting while doubled over, wracked with fear and panic. Until something caught my eye.
There were many stone tombs in this room, much newer than any I had seen thus far, and most of them empty. In fact only one of them had the lid covering it. But it was the name that made me shudder. “Maynard Greyrock”, and then in a smaller font underneath “1876-1936”. My grandfather had died here, not of old age, in the end. I was in shock, and carelessly slid the heavy grey lid from the top of it to see if it really was his body, sending the slab crashing onto the ground.
The body within was unrecognisable, simply a cracked skeleton with a thin, stretched, wrinkly husk of skin wrapped around it. He couldn't have decayed this much yet, he had only been dead a couple of weeks! That's when I put some the mystery together. The purple slime, and the wet mucus on the smiling creature, perhaps even the very air of that place, they made things age quicker. That's why the half of my face hit with the liquid was already decaying and wrinkling, and why this man who died at the age of 60 not even a month ago was already scarcely more than stray bones.
Suddenly with a crack, a splinter of wood flew past my face, as the heavy planked door was demolished more and more. With a final smash, a clawed hand emerged from the centre of the door, wood flung everywhere. Then another hand. The rest of the door bends from the pressure, and with the sound of a tree falling over, the door collapses under the weight of the thing and its purple veins. I was preparing all that time though, readying my gun for action. This time I stood further back, so as to avoid getting the purple blood anywhere on me. Unfortunately that meant less power in the blast, the scatter of the projectiles was obvious in the results, but it still did damage. Many of the pellets were lodged in the chest again, while others tore up large sections of the thigh. One lucky pellet seemed to have pierced through the knee, and so it limped a lot after that. The vast majority of the pellets vit veins, though, that much is certain, so I had to be very careful not to step into the swiftly accumulating puddle of purple sludge, lest my shoes age and turn into dust beneath my very feet.
While the screaming creature, still smiling, writhed on the floor in pain, I got a run-up and sprinted for the door, climbing over the tomb and through the splintered remnants of the door. And I kept running
I ran through the maze, keeping to the right, even as I heard the roaring monster scuttling behind me, even as I felt its claws scratch across my back I still ran, sprinted, dashed, raced, desperately willing my legs to keep moving after hours of tiring exploration. Finally I made it to the ladder, but I could hear it right behind me, so I unholstered my gun once more and smashed it across its face, destroying the gun but staggering it for long enough that I could hastily climb up the rungs, close the trapdoor, and stack every item of furniture known to man on top of that God forsaken section of floorboard.
And so, I survived, with nothing to show for it, save for an ugly wrinkled section on my face and a good few scars. I was lucky though, very lucky. In fact I should have died, really. Blinded by greed, overwhelmed with hubris, I should have joined those hundreds of tombs down there. After thinking about it now, I imagine so many people died down there because of stories, just like my grandfather's, dripping with mystery and curiosity and potential. No doubt he got a clue of its existence from a previous family member too. But the cycle ends now. I shan't tell a word of this to anyone else. And don't worry, all names and dates have been fabricated in this statement, so there is no chance of anyone trying to find the catacombs based on this. Haha, how fitting that the end of this loop should come from a story.
I just wish that I couldn't still feel the smiling creature stalking me from the shadows. I believe it will hunt me to the very end of my days, and I think that end may turn out to be quite soon…
Statement of Hallory Taller, regarding a person she met at a bus stop. Statement taken June 28th.
I want to preface I’ve never had hallucinations before this. I’m not on any medications, and I have a pretty clean medical history in terms of anything mental. I don’t know if what I saw was real, I only know that your.. institution is the only place that’ll somewhat believe me. I don’t know what she- it- they- what that person was, but I-
Right. From the beginning. Hold on.
I worked for a small company as a graphic designer when this took place. It was January 4, and I’d just been freed from a particularly unpleasant shift that day. There’d been a fight with my supervisor, I don’t want to get into details here..
Anyways, I usually take the bus home. I don’t live too far from the office, but it’s a quicker method than walking. The bus stop’s never crowded, and I’ve come to recognize the few people that take it. I couldn’t relay any of their names, of course, but I most of their faces are familiar to me. That day, the bus was- annoyingly- late, since it’s usually scheduled to show up at 19:05. So I waited, alone. None of the people I’ve come to recognize showed up that day, but it was none of my business to fret over it. I frankly didn’t care. I checked the time a couple times off my phone. It was about 19:15.
After not-too-long, a person walked up beside me. I’ve never seen her around the area, but the most likely assumption was that she was just new in town. I assumed she was here waiting for the bus. O-of course she was, that’s the point of a bus stop, but- I don’t know, something about her seemed.. wrong. She had orange hair, bright orange and the bottom half of her hair was very dark brown, and put up in a bun. Her clothes were casual, maybe a hawaiian shirt, I don’t remember. And I never really got a good look at her face, but oddly enough I do remember that she had long curly eyelashes, I can only describe as looking like a bug’s antenna.
I didn’t say anything to her when she first arrived, miffed as I was. But she turned to me, in an odd swift motion that made me feel dizzy, and asked where the bus was going. I didn’t hear her the first time, and she asked again. “Where is the bus going?”
I answered after the second time, Devon Street , and she looked.. no. No, I can’t.. I don’t think it was a smile. A butterfly landed on her face, even though I didn’t see it appear.
It was back to silence after that, thankfully. I just wanted the bus to get here quicker. Something about that stranger made me deeply uncomfortable, and the butterfly did. not. leave. I checked my phone again. A blurry, fluttering 19:15. Not a minute had passed. I felt dizzy. I stared at that screen for more than a minute, I know I did.. and it didn’t change.
"Is it late?” She asked me another question, which made me realize I was zoning out. I mumbled a half-assed response, and she shrugged. The motion was uncanny, like as she moved from one position to another, parts of her moved independently and rearranged to form the next. 19:15.
I think another 5 minutes of silence passed, as I compulsively checked my phone every 20 or so seconds. She didn’t talk or move- not in a way I recognized- standing beside me idly with an umbrella in her hand. I don’t remember her having that before, but I probably just didn’t realize until then. It was completely sunny out. Another butterfly landed on her shoulder. 19:15.
"Are you lost?” She asked after.. I don’t know how long, I lost track. It was still 19:15. No, of course not, I wanted to say, since I didn’t think I was. I’d always taken that bus. I’ve always used that bus stop. But it felt.. wrong, unfamiliar, now. A few butterflies landed on the sign beside me. She moved again, tilting her head in this taunting smile, with the same unnerving motion that nearly made me vomit. “Yes,” I told her.
She reached out a hand to me, and a butterfly landed on it. “Come with me?” Was her last question.
I reached.. to take her hand, but mine.. slipped through it. It wasn’t solid, no, a mass of butterflies mimicking the shape of a human hand. It fell apart in front of my eyes, into a dizzy swirl of confused insects, and I am not ashamed to admit that I screamed. She laughed, her mouth splitting open as the lepidoptera that made up her face fluttered to form a smile.
I abandoned that stupid bus stop, turning on my heel and booking it down the road. I didn’t care, I just wanted to get home. Away from that. That.. thing. Things. By the time I’d made it to my front door, tired, sweaty, a little nauseous, I checked my phone again. It was 19:16.
I don’t take the bus stop anymore. I’ve just been saying that it’s easier to walk home, that I need more exercise, but.. I’m worried I’ll meet that person again. I still see butterflies on the sign when I walk past it.
((CW: Mentions of ED; objectification; sexism; body dysmorphia; creepy behavior; implied cannibalism; ))
Statement of Jan Evants, regarding his..obsession
I know how this is going to sound like. But no matter what I'm going to tell you here today I need you to know that I am NOT that kind of man you might think I am. I have a WIFE and and I have a DOTHER I would NEVER even think to do something like-
You're right. You're right , I'm getting ahead of myself. I apologize.
This all started after I aquired a new job position at a perfume boutique LA PUR Délice on *** ***. It's not a typical job for a man , I certainly felt much less comfortable there than I did at my last position as a security guard in a small corner store near my apartment at the time. But I soon found that it's not that different after all . Most of our clients where more keen to take advice from my female colleagues so my job boiled down to it's most basic form of service : watch over every customer that goes through the door of our boutique. I don't think I need to mention that most of these costumers were women.
Through the months that I worked there I probably seen more women then any man will in their entire life. Old ones , young ones ,fat ones , skinny ones. You could always tell by the way they carry themselves if today we'll get more sales then yesterday. Or on the opposite, who will come in to get few sprays on herself and then hurry away as soon as you lay your eyes on her. Those were my favorite ones , especially if they were young. There is just something about a woman feeling your eyes on her and trying her best to behave. That's were the real power is , I'm telling you.
When I saw her for the first time from a far there was honestly nothing extraordinary. We got our fair share of chirping teenage girls from time to time and a stag of bleached blonde hair would definitely not impress me in the slightest. I did however, note her almost see through top , which immediately lighten my mood : not only did I get to to scold her justly, but I'll maybe even get to see sights worth seeings.
It all stopped the moment I started to approach her. Not even two steps in I felt numbing feeling travel down from my spine to my legs. Not the usual type of pain but the feeling you get after saying something you know you should've never said. I felt my hands began to sweat, my ears drumming with pulse , I felt...scared. I couldn't walk to her , I couldn't even talk to her. Noticing my steps the girl half turned to look at me , her green eyes disregarding me with no interest. And I could clearly feel why. My body became uncomfortably aware of it's existence , each movement of the legs felt slobbish , each brush of arms against my torso unnecessary. How come I never noticed that dubble chin ? That patch of hair left from shaving which was now tagging on my shirt's collar like bunch of needles. I was a disgrace, a bump, a joke. No one should've seen me like this , especially not her.
I don't remember how I resolved that situation at work. Maybe I asked for early leave with sickness , maybe I just tried hiding in the deeper corners of the store. I can't bare to think of what kind of man I was at that moment. A worse man, that's for sure .
Then only thing I knew back then is that I should become better. My first thought was hitting up a gym on my way home , but as soon as I imagined other people seeing me , seeing my arms flailing around as fat on them flopped like repulsive wings I knew that I couldn't come anywhere near it. I should've been a man. Should've had discipline damn it! And that was exactly what I was planning to do
I started eating half the food I used to before. My breakfast, lunch and dinner consisted of eggs, rice , salad with the vegetables that I never learned how to properly cook. I knew that I should've added at least some kind of meat to this "feast" , but the moment I put even a small bite of it into my mouth I'd get that feeling again. Feeling of failure. Feeling of those slobbish balloons of fat coming back. Fuck yes I was hungry. But i knew how to dull this hunger. I knew that I needed her.
In the next several weeks I learned verything I could about that girl...well..a woman , I should say. No one would blame me from not catching up to that fact earlier, after all the outfits she wore on her daily strolls were always far too short and left very little to the imagination. But I was a starved man and I appreciated fantasies her choices gave me.
I spend hours studying those curves, the way they dripped over tight rubber of a skirt, moved even after a sudden stop , floated into soft lines possible to replicate only by most delicate pastries. The best part was , every time I got near her all that noise of senses would just dissapear. No hunger,no longing, no suffocating hive of smells that scrach at the back of your throat. Only a pleasant smell of sweetness and ammonia, that stay with you even after she's gone.
I was called out numerus times for this. Being "upset minded" as they put it, but I couldn't give two shits. I needed something to look forward to.
And with every shirt which became looser by day , with every painful growl of a stomach I felt vibrating through my thinning flesh, I knew I was getting better. I was getting perfect for her
I can't tell you what made that day special. I was in the same loose shirt , same baggy jeans I wore to that dumb job every day. I think I even forgot to shave that day , but it ultimately didn't matter. It was the day she looked at me.
I can't begin to describe to you how good it felt to finally see her smile. My body piercing with thousands of needless, my heart drumming in the back of my throat as I careful stepped closer to her , feeling every step reverberate through my body, my lightheadedness becoming worse and better at the same time.
As I approached she started talking almost immediately. Her voice chattering something childishly, hands with perfect soft fingers falling around to point something out on the shelf. Her lips flopping,her tongue moving with wet clicks.
My hand moved almost on it's own , I only noticed that it did after I felt her soft , warm skin underneath my cold boney fingers. She smiled again. She knew exactly what I needed.
....
........
I'm sorry , I'm just trying to think on how to describe this part. Have you ever been in love ? Not that cheesy romance bullshit, but the one that feels like a parasite in your brain. I wagley remember reading once that the reason we like cats so much is because they have some kind of bug that makes us attracted.
I guess it's something like that..When every movement, every breath the other person makes, makes you want to crawl under their skin. Bring them as close as possible, kiss them like you want to taste the back of their throat ,dig your nails into their soft flesh, start tearing it to strands . Each one coming off like well cooked meat , slipping past your lips into your throat with moisture of their body being the only lubricant, feel your tears mix up with your own saliva as you realize that this is the only time in your life you felt truly whole. While they look at you. While they smile. And laugh. Laugh. Laugh . Laugh untill you get to their throat.
...
I'm not that kind of man. I feel like I am a better one, but I don't want to be . I want forget what I saw when I finally got my mind back . I want to stop my mouth fill up with saliva when I go past dumpsters of butchery shops. Weird to say ,but I wish the most that I could get my vomit reflux back. But I know I won't. No matter how hard I tried
And I tried.
Especially after passing next to my old work place and smelling that warm scent again. Hearing that laugh. Seeing those hair....
....
Is it okay if I use your bathroom on the way out ?
