Stitch

The pain in her side was sudden, a sharp and toothsome thing that dug in and held, without any intention of going anywhere else.  It spread wings within her spine, and its talons slowly encircled her heart, and began to squeeze.  Somewhere in the dark red of her, seeds of agony multiplied, took root in her blood, gave birth in her lungs.

When stars blossomed in her vision, red novas of exquisite detail mapping a delicate haze over her view, her face was locked in a cheek-tearing grimace, her molars cracking as she struggled to keep her teeth closed against the fireskinned demon living inside her.

She hit the ground stiffly, muscles seizing, body contorting. Rather than curling inward, fetal, distressed, she splayed outward, curving, spine arching, cracking, hips and shoulders bowed. Chest and pelvis thrust out, head tipped back.  Her eyes were squeezed shut, blood collecting in the lashes and lines at the corners, saliva foaming at her lips, brought on by locomotive breaths and a glottal-choked howl.

When the medics came with the needles full of silver, full of blue light, she only relaxed the physical half of herself; far beyond the dark red of her insides, she floated away, dreaming.

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0 Responses to Stitch

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Doesn’t really matter how busy work is, I’ll stop to read you whenever I can, Jones. No one writes like this. No one. You’re feral and you’re mysterious and your writing is, best of all, so fucking big. It screams size and scale, a talent I dearly wish I had. That last line of the first paragraph alone is so well-written, so evocative… and chilling.

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