isolated

Rated 18+ for body horror, self-cannibalism, self-harm, blood, and gore.

You sleep, but you are tired.

A bone-weary tired, the kind that creeps into your bones and weighs down your body like lead and steel.

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You are tired, but you can no longer sleep.

They crawl over your body when you try, dainty feet scampering over every inch of exposed skin in the dead of night. You do not like these creatures, but they seem to like you.

Misery loves company and you are all the more miserable for it.

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Your skin itches more and more with each passing day, peeling off in sheets to expose rawer flesh. You itch, and itch, and itch but no matter how much ointment or treatment you apply, it does not go away.

Your bones feel heavier than normal and it’s hard to keep your eyes open in the late hours of the night.

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The walls are infested.

Beady black eyes stare out at you, flashing white toothed grins before fading away.

You do not know what to do with this, so you curl up in the corner and hope that maybe he will be back; all wicked smiles and sharp blades. You fear him, but you fear the eyes on the wall more.

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Your skin itches, so you scratch at it harshly. Your skin is marked over with red lines from nails and you wonder what it would taste like, the infection that spreads through your body.

Eventually you take a dagger, carving out flesh in hopes of stopping this itch. It doesn’t work but you’ve grown addicted to the pain and now your body throbs along with the itching.

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There’s bumps on your skin, rough and sharp to the touch. You are curious, you press fingers to each one.

It does nothing so you begin to pry each one free with the dagger. It’s blade is stained with dried crimson and you don’t bother cleaning it as you dig it into the curvature of your spine.

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Infection sets in, accenting the purple and green bruises lining your skin.

You think it looks pretty, and begin to connect each splotch with a thin cuts in swirling patterns.

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A roach scampers across your legs but you feel nothing except for numbing cloudiness and the sharp pains of hunger gnawing away at your stomach. Or maybe that’s the maggots, eating away at your, piece by piece.

You’re not opposed to the idea.

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Your hands are stained from the first days of your self-isolation, stained from scratching at the walls, stained from smashing anything that crawls too close.

You couldn’t care less anymore, watching as a spider crawls up your hand and inches its way towards your lips, cracked and leaking blood.

You bite and it crunches between your teeth, legs flailing. It gives you a sense of control, so you chew and you swallow, ignoring the prickle of hair scratching at your throat.

Another comes to investigate and meets the same demise as its predecessor.

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They learn to not come closer, lurking in the walls and watching. Their feet scrabble against the wall in an infuriatingly annoying noise and you think if you weren’t already insane, it would be enough to drive you to madness.

Sane people will never know the joy of being insane. They say if you know you’re insane, then you are in actuality sane but what if in the process of becoming insane, you grow sane?

You giggle at the thought and the sound of your laugher startles you, sending your heart pitter pattering in your chest and your hands sweat. The bugs do not like the sound of your laughter, for the scatter in fear and burrow into the ground beneath.

You do not like it either, because it reminds you of times best left forgotten, times where you were worth it. There’s a small voice in your head, saying maybe you are still worth it, but you banish it for you know you are not and even if you were, the time of it is long past.

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The ground is permanently dampened now and has been dyed an ugly shade of brown-red. It reminds you of him, minus the brown and the ugly.

You miss him and the blade he liked to hold to your throat, the promise of mercy he dangled over your head like a cat toying with a mouse. You missed those times, because at least you were alive.

Now you can’t tell if you’ve begun to decompose or if the maggots are still running their course.

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You itch.

Itch, itch, it won’t leave you alone.

The bugs have grown bolder, creeping closer and closer in swarms.

Your stomach aches with a pain foreign to you.

But so does your back, your bones, your skin. They itch, as if something was squirming under the surface, scrabbling to get out.

Must be the maggots.

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There’s a buzzing noise and it’s coming from you.

Inside of you.

Your head pounds and your throat is cottony dry.

Something is wrong, and it is not the fact that there’s flies hovering over the wounds in your body, or the spiders crawling along your torso.

You don’t mind though. Maybe it’ll be over soon.

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You can’t breathe, so you bite yourself in hopes of the pain shocking the air back into your lungs.

It doesn’t work but you just bite down harder, teeth tearing through paper thin skin and ripping into soft flesh. You move back, mouth full of blood and skin. You can feel it oozing out, dripping steadily down your chin.

It’s hot and metallic and is the best thing you’ve tasted in days, weeks, months. Only God knows how long you’ve been here. You chew and you swallow, warmth sliding down your throat.

You take another bite, unlucky spider crunching as it gets caught up in your feast.

You are hungry and the only thing left to consume here is yourself.

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It rises out of you, pulling itself from your throat and tearing through your vocal cords. Not as if you need those anyways, you stopped pleading for help a long time ago.

Leathery wings stretch out, brushing against each wall of the cavern. Dark brown eyes stare at you, pupils mere slits in the dimness.

You stare back, tongue glued to the roof of your mouth with quickly congealing blood. It smiles and you recognize yourself in the ugliness of it, in the vibrant yellow stripes running along its belly. It is you, you are it.

It is everything you are, leaving nothing for this husk of a living corpse lying on the floor. Maybe it’ll make better use of it, you are a waste of oxygen anyways.

You can feel the remnants of it under your skin, claws hooking into bone and nibbling upon the marrow you could not reach. There’s not much flesh left for it to eat.

You reached out, cradles you in its stubby arms and hums a tuneless hum. You let yourself be held, ignoring the frosty coldness nipping at your exposed ribcage.

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You are tired.

Creature holds you still, plucking strips of decaying flesh off your bones and humming discordantly.

It feels nice, dying does.

Like lying down in a warm hot bath and letting the water wash away dirty sins with sudsy bubbles.

You close your eyes and let yourself drift.

___________

Footsteps echo and Creature hisses, wings flaring.

You are dropped.

You do not bother moving.

__________

“-tor?”