Epicenter
There was a massive crack snaking through the floor. Phobos could see, from the edge of his eye, the basement apartment filling up with strange green fumes from the fissure, which seemed to go deeply into the earth. Butterflies ghosted all about the room, tickling his sweaty, blood-streaked flesh as the walls sweated and breathed like panting lungs. They sprung tiny trickles of blood whenever the butterflies landed on them though. The sofa lay in six pieces, three of which were burning merrily, though only one was being consumed. The other three were humming in minor fifth. Small bonbons warmed sugar-frosting hands at the blaze. Somewhere in the house, a crow was laughing endlessly over the rhythmic wheeze of a breathing machine.
"Bloody Hell..." Phobos managed to breathe, one hand still wound in Cloey's hair, her legs still tangled with his. "That was... that wassssssssth..."
But suddenly his tongue didn't want to make the words. It wiggled and stretched in his mouth, carding over teeth that were suddenly the entirely WRONG shape, and when he blinked in surprise, the world didn't go away, but just went sort of dimmer for a second. He looked at Cloey in alarm, but when he tried to say her name, it just didn't come out right at ALL.
"KhhhhlaaaaassssthhhhhH!" he managed, utterly confused.
What the bloody FUCK?