There is mildew growing between their bones
The wood of the house is warped and warped, warped to a point where it can’t just lean back in a gentle arc against the wall, it has to lean forward, too, so the first couple of boards break free of their hole in the frame and slide over the gap like a trio of disembodied entrails; bloodied and soggy. Panes of glass break inwards, oily, papery light filters through them and flows down the bony corridors of the building, along the naked, waxy walls.
No, the house isn’t sick. The fruiting bodies that grow across the floor and fill every cupboard and cover every surface in the place are alive. They are intelligent beings, sentient. They are learning. They are self-aware and sensitive.
It’s strange, but not new. It’s been strange for some time. The house is only the latest receptacle in a long line of human constructions designed to entomb and contain her being. The dish, the clear specimen bag, the big glassbox coffin 400 kilometres away: these are all artificial viviparous bodies. The house is artificial, too. She is trying to escape, but there is nothing to escape to.
Her status is both terrible and enviable. She is both prisoner and warden, pitiable and powerful. She is inescapable and mighty.
She has been here before all of this: all manner of crawling things, things with legs, or leaves, or tentacles or teeth. She will be here long after these are gone too. She has lasted through oceans of mud and fire, and the engulfing, throbbing fingers of scorching heat. Through plague, and famine. Through war. She will survive this, too. But to live on for centuries, lonely.
izzy806
areudirty
2087
kianamaiart
romaincrisis
germansingergirl
