NaNoWriMo 2012
Posting my NaNo on LJ this year seeing as I'll be working on separate machines. Consider this storage space.
The bone-shuddering sensation of foot-tickling pulled Damon out of his dreams. The maggots were back. The humidity of summer brought with it the parasites as well as memories of days gone by. Every afternoon the blazing sun would pour its deathrays through the window of the battered apartment, intruding into the dusty darkness where rats and ex-soldiers slept past lunchtime. It was taxing to spend so much time lying in bed, particularly when it became so hot that sweat beads rolled down one's forehead like a boiling baptism keeping sleep at bay. The squirming grains of rice on Damon's rotted foot also didn't help. He wasn't sure how they kept coming back- it wasn't as though he ever opened the windows or doors.
Peeling away the single sweaty sheet that clothed him, Damon rose from his twenty-three hour slumber and swung his legs over the side of the bed. A few of his new friends were shaken from his blackened stump and fell soundlessly to the bare floorboards, writhing in panicked abandonment. A few of them crawled blindly towards the bed legs as though trying to find something solid to cling to in the relatively vast expanse of their bare surroundings. Without sustenance, they would soon wither and die having never known life beyond their palpal stage. They would never rise into the sky on cellophane wings, never find a mate to carry on their genes. No one would even care that they'd died.
Damon crushed them underfoot -or rather, under-stump,-as he reached for his crutches and lumbered to the bathroom. The cool spray from the shower head washed away the sweat and worms from his body as he lay down in the bottom of the tub. It was indeed unfortunate to be awake again. At least in his drug-induced siestas he could escape from reality. The meds his psychiatrist had prescribed did nothing to kill his blood-soaked nightmares, and so he had taken to alternative medicines. Unfortunately this alternative required injection between his toes. After a few months of usage, he no longer had toes so he would inject into the crusty curve of the top of his foot. When that turned to blackened rot, he injected into that. Sometimes layers of dead skin would slide off to make way for the needle. It had become increasingly difficult to find a spot of solid flesh and, not wanting to ruin his hands (he needed those to put the needles together and masturbate), he injected higher and higher on both feet until naught but putrid stumps remained. Even now it was getting harder to inject into the exposed veins that were semi-attached to his ankles. As the freezing water poured down on him, he pondered the possibility of injecting straight into his neck. Perhaps after a while that too would putrefy and his brain would lose its blood supply. Then he could sleep forever.
The bone-shuddering sensation of foot-tickling pulled Damon out of his dreams. The maggots were back. The humidity of summer brought with it the parasites as well as memories of days gone by. Every afternoon the blazing sun would pour its deathrays through the window of the battered apartment, intruding into the dusty darkness where rats and ex-soldiers slept past lunchtime. It was taxing to spend so much time lying in bed, particularly when it became so hot that sweat beads rolled down one's forehead like a boiling baptism keeping sleep at bay. The squirming grains of rice on Damon's rotted foot also didn't help. He wasn't sure how they kept coming back- it wasn't as though he ever opened the windows or doors.
Peeling away the single sweaty sheet that clothed him, Damon rose from his twenty-three hour slumber and swung his legs over the side of the bed. A few of his new friends were shaken from his blackened stump and fell soundlessly to the bare floorboards, writhing in panicked abandonment. A few of them crawled blindly towards the bed legs as though trying to find something solid to cling to in the relatively vast expanse of their bare surroundings. Without sustenance, they would soon wither and die having never known life beyond their palpal stage. They would never rise into the sky on cellophane wings, never find a mate to carry on their genes. No one would even care that they'd died.
Damon crushed them underfoot -or rather, under-stump,-as he reached for his crutches and lumbered to the bathroom. The cool spray from the shower head washed away the sweat and worms from his body as he lay down in the bottom of the tub. It was indeed unfortunate to be awake again. At least in his drug-induced siestas he could escape from reality. The meds his psychiatrist had prescribed did nothing to kill his blood-soaked nightmares, and so he had taken to alternative medicines. Unfortunately this alternative required injection between his toes. After a few months of usage, he no longer had toes so he would inject into the crusty curve of the top of his foot. When that turned to blackened rot, he injected into that. Sometimes layers of dead skin would slide off to make way for the needle. It had become increasingly difficult to find a spot of solid flesh and, not wanting to ruin his hands (he needed those to put the needles together and masturbate), he injected higher and higher on both feet until naught but putrid stumps remained. Even now it was getting harder to inject into the exposed veins that were semi-attached to his ankles. As the freezing water poured down on him, he pondered the possibility of injecting straight into his neck. Perhaps after a while that too would putrefy and his brain would lose its blood supply. Then he could sleep forever.