mouthful
he’s met death. no. too vague. he’s met her cohorts. brushed shoulders with pain. shared drinks with bitter and sorrow. welcomed rot into his arms. slow trickle of definitive moments throughout the last five years that has him here now; mouthful of dead birds—splintered bits of who he used to be. god-fearing? no. though being unfeeling isn’t any better.
of the group, he’s the last to head in. forlorn eyes staring down the path of the stairs, bone chill that greets him. weary that settles in rotten bits. inchul is slow to step down, fingers pressing two little white pills to the back of his throat while he walks. precursor for the pain. as if he hasn’t been medicated since that morning.
the basement itself is poorly lit. an assortment of trinkets (treasures? trophies?) sat across the shelf. the air is damp, and inchul struggles the slightest to breathe past the whiff of dust, unidentified fragrance, wet smell of death. tucked away from the murmurs of his friends, his eyes take interest almost immediately to the head, corner of his lips lifted in mimic.
another “definitive moment”. catalyst for yet another unmaking: inchul swipes the head off the shelf without a moment’s consideration and turns to the nearest body, fingers sliding over their shoulder in greeting. “hey.” he lifts the wolf’s head to face level, lips curling slightly to himself in quiet devilment.
“what did you get? wanna trade?”
— for @fcclhardy.