@giggly-evil-puppy and Anons, I got all of these in response to this blurb, so Imma smoosh them together and give y’all some comfort. :3 Tysm for writing in!!!
CW’s: Gore, burns, i’m serious these burns are deep and graphic, vomit/emeto, caretaking, fucky headspace, trauma response/relapse, disassociation, dehumanization, begging, fear.
It’s been more than thirty minutes. The creature has no way to tell that, of course; just like the name Ash means nothing, now. The vampire has no thoughts and no purpose; at least, not beyond being consumed. There is only the sun, and waves of agony that crash unrelenting against a fragile shore.
Air comes in a weak, wheezing rattle. Exhales come either as a ragged, throaty howl or a sob. Occasionally, there’s the sound of weeping, and more rarely, of pleading; it’s broken and raspy, only partially coherent. It always ends the same way, in a high, keening whimper, like a sound from a dying animal.
The air stinks like cooking meat, and the skeletal figure curls into the fetal position and shudders as it’s burned alive.
Flies buzz overhead, drawn by the stench of charred flesh and death. The skin is barely clinging to the creature’s ribs; it has curled in on itself, desperately shielding its face and head. But the sun is relentless, and it sloughs flesh off the vampire’s bones in smoking, stringy clumps. It’s healthier, now, fuller - only more to burn.
The desiccated heap of bones and flesh jolts at the command. Go inside.
For the longest time, the word means nothing. There is no obedience left in the creature; any thoughts it might have had slip away, formless. It judders through another convulsion as another layer of flesh gets singed away, and the vampire arches and looses another pitchy, grating cry.
There isn’t enough muscle left clinging to the vampire’s skeleton to go anywhere. It reaches out a shaking hand, and sees with blurred vision that the skin of its hand is gone. Instead the sinew and nerves are exposed, and the creature screams again in horror and terror as the wicked heat licks away at that, too.
It deserves to burn. If nothing else, even if no other thought exists, that the creature knows. This is its righteous judgment, the flames of hell scorching away its filth. It howls its anguish, and it twitches and shakes in the dirt, and it burns.
In the end, instead of clawing its way inside by the bloody tips of its fingers, it is found.
It’s only the vampire’s supernatural senses that allow it to hear the words. The voice is familiar, and it the low timbre of it brings a formless, desperate rush of hope.
