Thursday: Fantasy
Deepest, darkest fantasy
They're on their knees and this time you have all the control. Before you screamed and no one heard you but now your silence commands attention. You remember what they did and from your core retribution manifests in an eruption of fire. You stand at the center untouched while the four shriek and their flesh boils. It fills every sense and you're relieved to realize that this is the true emotion your empathy has denied you.
But it's not enough.
You fall on them, one by one. Fingers pierce their breast and you dig deeper, pulling and tearing. The resistance you encounter through skin, muscle, tendon... it's satisfying. The wet snap of bones, the hollow pop of joints, the slick sound and feel of their blood. You hollow them out just to pour in all your rage, burning their centers so they know what you've carried around for eight years.
And you do this over and over. Resurrecting them just so you can feel it again.
You paint that room with them. Smearing warm, wet fingers over bleach white cinder-block walls, blue and yellow lockers, scratched wooden benches. Grind it into the grout on the floor, the showers, the counters. Slop it over the fixtures and it'll run down the steel faucet, dripping into the sink and blooming across cracked porcelain. You know every centimeter, every flaw, every act of vandalism in this place. Cover it all. Such a peaceful, methodical silence while you work. You'll never feel as calm as you do when your fingers dip into them and lift a cupped handful of blood, raising it to the mirror and slowly erasing the room's reflection.
They're on their knees and this time you have all the control. Before you screamed and no one heard you but now your silence commands attention. You remember what they did and from your core retribution manifests in an eruption of fire. You stand at the center untouched while the four shriek and their flesh boils. It fills every sense and you're relieved to realize that this is the true emotion your empathy has denied you.
But it's not enough.
You fall on them, one by one. Fingers pierce their breast and you dig deeper, pulling and tearing. The resistance you encounter through skin, muscle, tendon... it's satisfying. The wet snap of bones, the hollow pop of joints, the slick sound and feel of their blood. You hollow them out just to pour in all your rage, burning their centers so they know what you've carried around for eight years.
And you do this over and over. Resurrecting them just so you can feel it again.
You paint that room with them. Smearing warm, wet fingers over bleach white cinder-block walls, blue and yellow lockers, scratched wooden benches. Grind it into the grout on the floor, the showers, the counters. Slop it over the fixtures and it'll run down the steel faucet, dripping into the sink and blooming across cracked porcelain. You know every centimeter, every flaw, every act of vandalism in this place. Cover it all. Such a peaceful, methodical silence while you work. You'll never feel as calm as you do when your fingers dip into them and lift a cupped handful of blood, raising it to the mirror and slowly erasing the room's reflection.