The monster smirked, and the reflection in the mirror did just the same. "You're already going mad. Why do you deny what you are?" The hand gripped him harder by the robe, using strength that it shouldn't have had. It was all decaying bone aside from thin, ragged, and bloody strips of muscle.
Heat's reflection only laughed as the second hand reached out of the mirror and braced itself on the faucet. Then, the head of the monster followed. The skeleton had a few tufts of vivid red hair, and one eyeball rolled around in its socket. Then, it bared its teeth - teeth that were few in number, but razor-sharp - and hissed.
That was a dare as much as it was anything else. The mirabis' heart seemed to beat within its open chest, as if it were echoing the words: Give in. Give in. Give in.
This wasn't possible. Heath gave a shocked cry and tried to pull back. The image of himself wavered, flickering slowly into the actual image of the mirabi which was even more unsettling. He grabbed the arm with both of his own, the flashlight falling and rolling to the edge of the room so that he was struggling in near complete darkness. Pulling back would only drag the creature further out, but he didn't think there was any way of pushing it back in.
He was losing his mind, his fears manifesting themselves in a vivid hallucination. Somehow he had to break out of this, but it seemed oh so very real and his body was screaming at him to devour. His human persona clung to dominance, disgust at the very thought of sinking his teeth into this thing remaining on the surface.
It was something out of a nightmare... and maybe it was a nightmare. He was back in his bed and the sight of blood before he'd drifted off had caused him to dream this up. The thought failed to reassure him as his feet slipped on the tiled floor.
Indeed, there wasn't any way to push it back in, as nice as that would have been. If anything, the monster's grip tightened, as if trying to choke its prey. It hissed again, sliding a bit further out of the mirror, as its free hand reached for him.
That hand - with long, yellow nails that were less brittle than they had any right to be - dug into his arm, hard enough to draw blood. It was as if it was tempting him, with the visible organs and the scent of blood. If nothing else, it was an attempt to break that human resistance.
If he could get a good grip on the creature... slam its head into the ground... But the first part was proving too difficult. Aside from the physical difficulties, it was becoming harder and harder to think over the roaring hunger. Heath's arm was burning again, the symbol glowing red and casting its hellish light on both him and the monster he struggled with. Lines of the same color began etching their way along his skin, up the arm and over his shoulder towards his neck.
Heath O'Brien was a med-school drop-out from Connecticut who, aside from a few slip-ups, lived a perfectly healthy and normal lifestyle. But Heat was a demon that fed on the flesh of others of his kind to survive, and who hadn't consumed a single ounce of worthy sustenance since his revival. His forced persona could only do so much
( ... )
Comments 13
Heat's reflection only laughed as the second hand reached out of the mirror and braced itself on the faucet. Then, the head of the monster followed. The skeleton had a few tufts of vivid red hair, and one eyeball rolled around in its socket. Then, it bared its teeth - teeth that were few in number, but razor-sharp - and hissed.
That was a dare as much as it was anything else. The mirabis' heart seemed to beat within its open chest, as if it were echoing the words: Give in. Give in. Give in.
[Jen]
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He was losing his mind, his fears manifesting themselves in a vivid hallucination. Somehow he had to break out of this, but it seemed oh so very real and his body was screaming at him to devour. His human persona clung to dominance, disgust at the very thought of sinking his teeth into this thing remaining on the surface.
It was something out of a nightmare... and maybe it was a nightmare. He was back in his bed and the sight of blood before he'd drifted off had caused him to dream this up. The thought failed to reassure him as his feet slipped on the tiled floor.
Reply
That hand - with long, yellow nails that were less brittle than they had any right to be - dug into his arm, hard enough to draw blood. It was as if it was tempting him, with the visible organs and the scent of blood. If nothing else, it was an attempt to break that human resistance.
Reply
Heath O'Brien was a med-school drop-out from Connecticut who, aside from a few slip-ups, lived a perfectly healthy and normal lifestyle. But Heat was a demon that fed on the flesh of others of his kind to survive, and who hadn't consumed a single ounce of worthy sustenance since his revival. His forced persona could only do so much ( ... )
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