CW: Body Horror
Not all that glitters is gold. Blood too, glistens in the darkness. We all carry darkness within us, we all have folds of horror. You. You too.
Can you feel them? The bones, grinding there beneath your skin. You might be inclined to call them your bones. Your body, held together by your bones. Right? Wrong. So wrong. Most people don’t think about it. You didn’t, until now. Everything’s changed now. You feel it. Your body is not yours, not entirely. All you thought you knew is wrong. Within you is a core of darkness older than the stars.
And they want out.
Can you feel them now? Can you feel their yearning to break free of the darkness cast across them by your flesh? Can you feel them straining from within you?
It is sometimes said that the flesh is a prison. This is true. But it is not a prison for you.
You feel it, now, don’t you. The darkness within, and the darkness without that is within that. The ancient presence at your center. You are a flesh puppet shot through with seams of an ancient entity.
Stay still. Don’t move. Don’t breath. Don’t give away that you know, that you feel the vibrating terror not nearly deep enough beneath your skin. Keep still.
What do you mean you can’t? Oh no. No, not yet. You were meant to have longer.
Whatever you do, don’t try and get them out. Don’t scratch at your flesh with your nails, running deep tracks ragged into your skin. Don’t tear and biteat yourself, trying to free what is you from what is otherly. Don’t. It won’t help. Don’t scratch. Don’t tear. Don’t rip.
Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch.
I know it itches. Your skin crawls, trying in vain to escape what it now knows is not of it. It knows now. Knows that you know. It’s too late. I’m sorry. Goodbye.
You’ll feel it soon. The movement. You’ve probably never felt your bones before. I don’t know why I asked, earlier. Well soon you will. Grinding beneath your skin, but then it will intensify, worsen. Your flesh will crawl in the most literal sense. The strangest thing is that it won’t hurt a bit. Well, not at first.
You’ll feel your ligaments, the chains by which the bones which were yours were once held and bent tentatively to your will. They’ll snap like they were bitten. You’ll feel the muscle recoil desperately, keening away in terror. You can no longer resist scratching away at your skin uselessly.
Soon the bones that were yours will begin to emerge from your slackening skin, piercing upwards, ever outwards. How aren’t you dead, then? How, how, how, indeed. Really, how did you live this long with terror inside you? When humans talk about being chilled to the bone, you’re more right than you think. Right in all the wrong ways.
Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch.
It’ll hurt, then. Your insides will churn, now all too outside. The bones which were yours will surge upward out from you, the chains of your body broken. Your flesh, broken. Shards of horror will spear from within you until there is little left of you. The pain will be all consuming. The rending of your flesh, its brokenness at the expulsion of the bones that were yours. The vomiting forth of abomination. All the while, your mind lucid and all too aware. Only when they are free will you finally die, limp and empty.
T̸̡̡͚̩̰̞̝̫̟̫̻͙͓̓̆͜ͅͅḨ̶̢͉̗̝̤͙̟͉͓̥̲̫̲̪͈͛̀̃̌̂̒̂̋̉̒͗̅̈́͛̚͠É̶̛͎̥̼̜̣̽͂͆̽̃̑̇͗͑̓̀͛̕̕̚B̴̛̼̜̟̺̳̮̠̪̖̥̻͖̩̰̞̬̙̭̃̽͑̈́̅̓͛ͅO̵̡̧̧̗̯̫͉̤̲͇͈͕̹͍̯̟̘̼͎͛̆̂͑̚͝Ņ̴̧̜̝͇̺͓͓̗̘̻͙̮̲̤̦̦̖̭͊͘Ë̶̡̢̱̱̬̬̯̯̬̲̻̲̥͉̝̳̹̖̲́̍͑̍̄͜Ș̸̨̗̦̼͖̥̫̄́̾͑̂̑͗́̓̾͘T̶̨͚̺̳̥̭̐͠H̸̺͓̳̰̝̗̯̰̏̍̓̈̽̍̿̐E̸̢̧̟̭̫̖̮̘̜̰̝͍̠̠͓̐̔̑̽̑̀̂̾͂̑͗̽̀̇͑͘̚͠B̷̤̘̞̠̘̖̙̠̠̜͐̑̃͝Ớ̷̛̭̠̪͔́̇̑̔̇̃̓̿͐̀̿́̌͊̕͠ͅŃ̴̠̺̦͕͔͈͕̞̖̤̦͎̠̭̈̊̍̈̌̍̈̀̕͜͠͠É̶̙̃̈́̉͑͜Ś̴̨̡͔̩̗̭͈̻͚̟̪̳T̴̛̘̤̭͋̊̏̓̄͆̒̊̋̽̾́̈́̚̕̚̚H̶̛͔̥̺͖͙̎̈́̏͋̋͒̐͐̄̌̽̊̚̕͝Ę̶̧̹͓̗̤̗̣̞̹̅͜B̷͕̙̰́͌O̴̯̖̟̯͚͙̍̏̇́͂̈̃̀̍̽̄̇̓̊̈̿ͅN̸̢̘̬̥̝̼̊̽̄͋͂̒Ȩ̸̨͓̗̮̪͖̩̲͖̤͕͒͊̎̓̄̿S̴̨̮̠͓͎͙͎͖͍͇͉̮͕̮͇̠̈͂̓̒Ţ̶͖͚̳̗͓̠͕̩̲̩̪̯͚̳̳͕͕̈́̈ͅH̶̫̰̹̘̭͍̜͎̱̺̳̼̘̤̗̫̣̀̀͊̎̄̅̚͘Ë̴̦̟̰͔͖̖͓̣̭̗͖̬̞̼͉̌̂̈́̉̈̀̈͋̚͠B̸̪̟͔̱͔̹̹̟̤͈̹̠͉̃̈̐̓̍̓̆̾̇̾̇̕͜Ơ̸̴̶̶̷̸̵̸̴̴̴̴̷̴̷̸̴̶̵̸̷̧̡̢̨̨̨̡̡̧̢̡̢̡̧̧̨̨̡̡̨̨̨̡̧̡̢̨̨̛̛̛̞͕̼̪̻͇̜̥̭͉̝̜̳͇̼͍͙͕̺͉̭͓͕̝̺̺̖̠̺͔̖̬̯͓̟̩̤̼͔̠͓̹͔̳̦̣̦̜͕̟͔̗̭͔̟̣̗̲̬̳̣͍͇̳̳͙̠͍̱̰̹͖͙̱̰̤̖̩̖̣̗̩͇͔̱̯̩͖̖̟̲̬̣̙̹̥͈̭̩̳̰̙͖̙͍̫̫͚̳͕̠̜͚̱̱͉̭̬͕͓͍̝͕̰͈̗̤͕̞͓͉̻̜̩̰͚͔̗̫͕̼̥̙͍̯̪͕̺̠̠͔͔̙̠̦̹͍̪̦̱̰̺̼͕̱̜̝͖̖̟̪̬̻͈̘̙̝̰̲̮̠̲̱͈͉̠̭͔͎̮̦̰̞̼̗̞̦͕̫͔͉̯̭̼̗͓͔̆́̈́̾̅͐̎̌̀̉̋̌͌̉̓̾͛̈̌̄̋́́̅̇͌̈́̋͒͊͗̒̀̇̾̐̌͆̒̂͆̃̊̑͌̃͑̃̓̎͊͋͋͌͆̈́́̏̓̿̈́̀͊́̂̋͋̽̓͐͋̍̈́̀̀̒̈́̉͌̑̈́̀͑̌̈̔͗̈́̀̐̌͋͒̃̾͊̾́̂̋͑̃̌̔͂͋͐̏̔̈̓̊̆̈́̓̓̆̾͂̐̓͗̀͌͌̽̉́̄̂͐̋̊̐̔̊̍̀͂̇̏̈́̎̽̅̈́̅̒̋̒̃̄̈́͊͆̇̓́̈́̆̔̽́̄̍̃̇̈́͂̃̿͊͌̆́̿̇͛̐̐̈́̉͊͐̀̍̌̉̑̓͂́̈́̽̒̈́̓̕̚̚̕͘̕͘͘͘̕̕̚͘͘̕͘͘̕̚̚͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅN̶̷̶̴̷̷̷̸̴̵̵̶̵̶̵̷̷̷̶̷̷̶̵̷̴̷̷̢̨̧̢̢̢̧̢̢̡̢̡̡̨̡̧̡̛̛̛̛͔͍̻̱̲͖̗̠̯̙͖͔͓̗̝̙͙̣͇̞̜̞͇̻͍̻̣̗̩̬̣͔̥̲̤̞̝̩̟̭̤̙̻͔̩̞͓̦̝̩̜̤̤̳͔̻͚͓̜̭̘̹͕̱̹̺̲̦͍̟̮̠̦͎͕̜̖̩͉͕̞̝̯̖̼̝̣̰͔̯͎̳̹̤͙̰̻͇̭̜̝̭̘̹̫͔̠̲̥̹͈͇͎͎̖̮͕̫̠̺̣̦̝͇͇͓̺͔͍̖͉̙͙̘͙͇̜̥͍͚̥͍̗͍̠͉̦͔̳͇̳̪̩̺̟̰̦̟̹̗̤̤̞͍̰̺͈̭̙̣̗̥̜̤͔͚͙̫̩̱̳̫͚͖̘̟̱͕͖̰̤͕͇͇̺̹̯̝̦̟̪̰͓̙͉̤̘̯̺̼̯͎̖̳͖͓̓͑̇̎̇̇̀͐̈́̆̉̋͋͑͐̎̽̃̓̉̔̅̓͋̆͌̄̍̍͋̃̃̒͐͛̈̐̐̈͂͆́̈͋̒̿̎̎̎̏̿́̄̇̌̊͑͋̽́̌͆̋̾̈́̇̓͐̆̾͂̃̃̏͒̅̈́͆͐̊̂̓̽̇̈̋̓̓̈̒̍̉̉̍̇̈̂̄̈́̂̓̈́̂̊̆̈́̈́̈́͗̑̀̉̆̂̏͋͗̓̾̄̎̑̍͆̃̅̃͆̅̆̔̉͆̈́̋̐͆͗̃͆̒̿͌̈́͋́͗͒̎̉̎͑͊͛̒͐͒̀͊̾̈́̂̉̓̔̎͐͗̆̈̅̽́͆̃̎̄̽̆͆͒́̓̐̉́̈́̂̍̆̄̔̋̍́́́̌̇̈́̃̌̏̒͂̊͗͐̐́̊̍͐͑̓̉̒́̃̈̿͑̒͊̀̏̈́̈́͑̔̈́̈́̉̂̄͐͗̓̒͋̋̄͗̎͗̌͋̎̑̿̃̀̉́̎̊̄̓̈́̀̀̾̕̚̕̕͘̕̚͘͘͘͘̕̕̚̕͘̕̕̚͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅȨ̸̸̶̷̷̵̷̷̴̴̸̸̷̵̸̴̶̸̧̧̢̧̨̧̢̧̡̡̧̨̧̧̛̛̛̛̹͓͈̘̭͈̫̺̼̠̻̖͎̝͍̺̼̼̘͈͚͍͈̻̯̳͙̜̩̞͙̖̬̤̠͎̙͇̠̫̘̱̥̹̣͚̫͙̞̱͎̣̹͖͎͓̺̱͉̜̟̦̖̫͇͎͍̝̳̹̘̩̝͍̯͓̘͚̘͖̰̳͔̭̲̣͔͓̪̮͖̗̙̼̝̙͍̠̗͈̪̗͉̭̺̻̫͍̜̘͔̜̦͖͇̟̺̹͎̹̳͎̙̘̯͕̂̈̒͆̆̎͌͗͊̂̓̅̉͌̽̒̈̌̌͛̅̔̐̒͑̂̊̽̆͒̽̊̅̍̈͂̊̍̓̍͊̃̓̂͆̆͛̈́͋̾̎̐͊̌̾͑̀͒̑̾͑͛͂̂͊̑́͛̈́̎͂̀̒́̒̑̈́͆̋̈̀̓̔̓̍̔́̄̃̿͆̏̒̐̏̉̈͒́̋̋̽́̀̂̀̀̂͛̂̂̔̍̍̔̍̈́̓̑̂̈́̓́͛͑̋͐̃̑͆͒̌̇͐̐͗͂͘̚̚̕͘͘̚̕̚͘͘͘̚͘̕̚̕͘͜͜͠͝͠͠͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅS̷̷̴̶̸̵̶̵̸̴̵̵̴̶̴̸̷̴̷̷̸̸̴̶̴̶̴̸̶̢̢̧̨̡̧̨̧̧̢̨̢̨̨̨̧̨̡̡̧̢̡̧̢̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̠̪̗͚̟̠͚͙̳̘̮̭̞̩̹̜̯̜̼̣͍̠̳͙̗̗͈̠̠̠͓̣͕̭͕̮̙̻̙͖̹͖̻̣̻͇͇̫̰̬͚̯͎͓̘̺̮͔͕̜̖̟̹̥̟̘̼͓͔̱̯̳̩̥̱͕͚͎̥͙̝̺͉̥͈̟͖̻̻̩̜͓͇̰̱͉̮̭̗̗̳̙̩̱̹͎̤̣̖̣͚̹͔̰̤͓̲̲̘͉͎̫̯̥͍͇̬̩̜̝̙̳̘̩͈̖̺̝͔͙̤͈͔̩̦̗͈̟̲̥͎̪̺̰̞̻̱͓͙̪̖̝̠͓͎͉̣͔̳̞̞̘̖̮͉͉̹̯̗̤͓̲͈̖͙̬͕͔̗̗̖̹̮̬̞͚̞̙͔̲̰̤̺̖͉̰̜͚̗̦̫͎̥͎̠̹̮͎̫̳͎̤̤̖̘͈͖̦̲̠̝̺͍̝̤̮͕̮͉͙̞̪̖̗͇̱̣͚͓̯͓̯̳̲͈̩̼͙̟͉̱͔͈̫̭̞͎̬͖͚̳̼̘̤̤̳͓̲̝̹̟̹̮̱͎̱̣͍͖̜͓̫̬̯̩̐̌͑͊̇̓͊̒͐̒̀̏̽͋̃̄̿̿͛͗̀͆̀̈́̏̿̏̀͋̈́͌̓̉͑̄͂͛̅͒̓͐́̇͐̃̂͂̑̂̿̀̎̅̀̑̎́̽͗͐̔̀̾̐̓͌̾̽̈́͐̀̿̽̿́͌́̈̀͐̇̐̒͗̀̓̃̾̊͊̃̽͂̉͐͌́́̏͋̔̓̂͆͑̿́͗́͋̀͌̆͊́͆̑̽̓̿͌̅̀̎͒͌̈̽͊̽̈́́̃̌̎͑̅͗̊͒́̆̎̃̿̈́̇͋͋̇̂̀̊̓̄̀͋̍̄̀̌̋̂̉͆̒̈́͋̃̋̒̉͌͗̔̿̏̊̏̎́͂͂͆̏̽̿͒̂̀́̓̅̂̐̅͗̂́̃̋̐̿̍͐̈́̆̀̋̿̏̈́̉̐͑̂̄̋̂̇̈̌̅̄͋͌̂͒́̍͆̃̐͑͋̎͊͊̅͋̕͘͘̕̕͘̕͘͘̕̕͘̚̕̕̚̕͘͘̕̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ
I feel it too. Grinding. Ever grinding. I’m sorry.
First ever attempt at horror. Not totally sold, but not bad for a first go I suppose. There's definetely some lines which I'm quite proud of, but I'm not sold on the thing as a whole. Second person is intresting...
I guess I’ve sort of failed my challenge. The turning of the years has been a lot. I’ll continue on with my goal to write 52 stories this year, but looks like I’ll need to be flexible in my goal of one a week.