The Bloodless

She bleeds life, like a dying flame, like a city starved, and as the drops fall on the dusty cool ground beneath the diseased oak, her naïvety veined and fleshed, she knows the time has come. To end it all.

But the end requires the beginning, for the Worms of Darkness feed only on memories of completion.

A fresh slice across her wrists scents the tainted air. Two more ruby drops fall, soaking the sand with a savoury metallic splash. The red bubbles and churns. The red deepens and hisses. The red morphs black, as black as her eyes and as jaded as her soul. She never should have come back. Maybe he’d still be hers.

The sands ripple. They like that.

The Worms of Darkness goad her on. More. Send us more.

They’re in control. They feed off suffering, off memories of pain. They’ve been known to keep the suicidal in suspended states until their appetites were sated. No quick deaths allowed. Long. Drawn-out. Sinister. Those were the nightmares of worth. Those were the nightmares demanding release.

She pulls memories one by one, once fresh, now rancid with spite.

We were happy. He loved me. We laughed. We danced. We dined on love. On that last night, he said he’d wait for me. Said there was no one else for him. That bastard. He lied to me. Fed me what I wanted to hear. Told me he was holding out for me. How long had he strayed? Pleased another? Laughed and smiled and danced with someone other than me?

She draws another crimson line across her skin.

The Worms of Darkness are writhing now. They rise from the soil, hot sand trembling in their wake. Long, fat black bodies glimmer on the moonlit surface, leaving sticky secretions and an odour of loss.

We will take you now, they hiss. We are satisfied. They latch onto her wrist, sucking the life, the memories, the pain.

She feels cold as the poisonous secretions swim through her veins. Sleep comes, her eyelids grow heavy. Shadows engulf the oak as her body becomes just another corpse for the soil.

The Worms of Darkness sink below the ground, belching pain into their lair, nearly full with the nightmares of life and the pulsing release of death.


Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash Mob:×36/comment-page-1/#comment-1685
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