Sunday, 11 March 2012

Week 1: "Character Building" - Andrew

“You mustn’t leave me.”

            I pound my fists against his chest to no avail. Nothing happens; the weakening of time had dealt its consequence in both of us. It is not adrenaline and pain that Death feasts on, it is the slow waning of life that he savours. Whereas he sleeps, peacefully, I am left on the other side of the veil trying to find its seams to rip or shred or destroy, yet too weak to unleash the potency of emotion in any form. My eyes would yet weep more if not for the lack of moisture, and my arms would yet cradle him a last time. So for now, I rely on anger and pain.  For now I entertain my anger as I knew it will fade to grey, unlike the sorrow that will forever linger.

            My arms grow tired of beating the corpse, his corpse, and my body begins to tremble. I lift his still warm, living yet lifeless arm over me; finding a sense of comfort in his surrounding presence.
“You said...” I whisper, spattering a combination of tears and saliva onto his sweater. “ were impervious.”
            Lifting my head to look upon his countenance, the pallor of his face and dull blue of his lips that promises the oncoming decay suppresses my anger. Perhaps I relinquished it. Perhaps his immortal soul that has now transcended mortality comforted me.  It did not protect me. It did not free me.

Take it.


Quickly, before it leaves.


You feel it in his arm.

            “You left me, weak and ancient.” Ancient, just like this curse.
Its tendrils eagerly latch onto the corpse before I have even positioned myself accordingly. The blueness of his lips devolve to grey; the blotched, tanned skin soon followed. The flesh withers to nothing; the space between his fragile bones and sagged skin now a void like my empathy. I stand, easily for my age, and feel no remorse or guilt for what I have just allowed.
            Before I can stretch my new muscles and crack my sturdy bones, the skin on my face tightens. My lips become plump. My spine straightens and my scalp returns to its healthy form after so many years.
            I look down at the corpse I have just desecrated, smiling as I run my tongue over my teeth. A full set of teeth that, moments before, were mostly missing (and those that weren’t, were crooked and a dark, unsightly yellow).
This parasite that uses me as a mouthpiece hides in the corners of my mind for decades, appearing only when its existence is threatened. Attached to my mortality, it feeds; insatiable until sated. Bathed in bloodless bloodshed, it returns to the depths of my mind where the other souls of men become a dessert for the Curse. Staring upon the corpse that mimicked the aesthetics of a centuries-old mummified pharaoh, I bend down and take his sweater.

          The sweater is cute, and it's cold in the streets of London.

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