“Explosion”
Whumptober 2019
Fandom: Mystery Skulls.
A heartbreaking wail ran across the long corridors of the mansion, fire gutted all over the rooms and a short-lived rage set itself free in an act of ache that grew as a pain between his ribs.
The ghost floated down to floor-level, feet touching the pinkish-red carpet, a hand resting on the wall for support and the other one clenching his anchor in a instinctive movement; thinking that with the pressure his pain would fade away, but with every heartbeat his body stung in compass.
Lewis tried to get himself to regain control, he imitated a deep breath, however, with no lungs the air didn’t even entered his dead projection. He growled in frustration.
The phantom straighten up in a imposing form, a frown crossing his skull-y factions and bright pink eyes irradiating a restless fury. He looked himself in the mirror and hated what he saw.
A floating skull for face that didn’t gave a sign of who he was in life, a black suit with six rib-like bones holding it and tightening his hips; and a dull and hurt heart as a manifestation of his betrayed soul. Lewis couldn’t help but feel disconnected from that image. It wasn’t him, he remembered how he used to look back when he was alive, and that specter wasn’t it.
Then he felt it again. A burning rage coming from an unknown spot inside him. The warm inferno grew to his limbs, the fire on his head heightened and his hands were burning. The ghost could only stare frustrated at his hands, shaking by the force he was closing them, then frustration grew into stress, then into anger; it became bigger and Lewis couldn’t do much about his emotional distress but feel mad at him, at his lack of control over his emotions; it only served as fuel to his explosion.
If he could describe it, he would say a explosion hurted. It wasn’t a comfortable warmness, neither it could harm him but definitely he hated the pain and, most of all, he hated the cracks it caused to his anchor. Lewis avoided exploding as much as possible but the reminders of his unfair death and the fact that his murderer was still out there, living his life, was too hard to ignore. So when all the emotions accumulated he just simply exploded.
But it didn’t just involve that, it costed him. His ghostly servants quickly ran away, furniture burned up leaving ashes and the mansion’s walls and windows darkened and deteriorated notoriously. It was slowly becoming a cheap fair haunted house, and Lewis hated that.
Lewis hated being a ghost.
Just when he felt he couldn’t hold it anymore, a deadbeat jumped out of nowhere. He instinctively cupped it between his still burning hands. Confusion replaced madness as he looked how the blobbling purple ghost curled in a ball. It didn’t seem scared just like all the others, it looked rather comfy wrapped around his large hands, like if the fire was less painful and more like a cozy rug in front of a fireplace.
The specter rubbed with his thumb the sleepy soul as if it was a cat. It giggled, or at least made a giggly sound, it reminded him home. Lewis broke a smile across his face.
Soon, other deadbeats rushed to his arms. Floated around him, loving him, with their tiny arms they held him carely, just how his family used to do. Lewis soon forgot all about his sudden anger, what he wanted right now was the affect those little ghosts could bring him.
Lewis looked up to the mirror again, and was surprised to meet a very familiar face smiling directly at him.
Lewis, for the first time in two years, felt alive.