Choice

The words freeze throat as you speak. Tears gather at the pain. But you force them out and hope they will take with them the torment you feel.

Words gather, and your stomach clenches around them. Tries. It tries to contain them. To keep the darkness from being released. From corrupting the life it touches once released into the air.

But neither do you want them inside you, festering, rotting you from within.

You scream, torn, agonized, the decision waiting with a smile as cruel as the words you have formed.

—-

Being sick has completely thrown me off course. I missed my usual Wednesday post, and I’ve barely been active the past few days. I apologize if I was late in replying to your messages. And if I missed it completely, I’m deeply sorry! I do my best to reply to each and every one of your comments! I appreciate the time you took to share your words!

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Until all is Still

It shrieks its way free from her mouth, emerging in all its gruesome glory. Spindly arms push past the lips and it launches forward, sharp, like a nosferatu’s fangs eager to pierce, to maim. A bullet that, once fired, cannot be taken back.

It charges, red. So small, yet the ground it covers is immense. It spreads its shredded wings and spirals straight through the pathetic shields hastily erected.

Black swirls in its wake, tainting the air with its noxious fumes. Though it dissipates from view, the intent lingers, cold, unforgiving.

And when it reaches its target, it opens its mouth and screams. Horrifying, grating, the sound cripples the ears, gouges the heart as it passes through pale barriers.

Once inside it gathers, and the pathway remains open for the others to enter. So they spate, whorling together, darker, stronger, building and building until their crimson bodies expand to the very edges of the fleshy confines.

Then from this new host they are again aimed, shrilling their howls as they fly once more, adding and adding until the air is too thick to breathe, and finally only choking can be heard. Choking that has a sense of finality it. Choking that knows that this will be the last time it is ever heard. That draws itself out as long as possible, perhaps hoping that the air will clear and their lungs move and their hearts tremble if only for a moment longer.

But it does not and at last the creatures land, their wings so torn from their violent flights, their crashes, that they are forced to crawl until they too close their eyes and lay down. Still.

And there is finally silence. A silence that will never again be broken by these two particulars. And slowly the air clears and in the room of broken glasses and upturned chairs no sounds will ever again be heard.