Empty: Book 1

20 : Doctor is a Carpenter

PANA

Gifted strength in my resurrecting blood is finally running out, and so is the time. In stabbing darkness hiding any trace of him from my eye, the entire period was blown without him being found. My intuition about this bony living creature— Mikol— arises, about covering up the actual matter to be known as a mistake, but of mine.

After offering a word of stake, in a contradiction of what I need, we're digging our eyes around this chaotic graveyard to see nothing, like a pumping brain inside his skull— pointless. I've encountered this type of human before in bags of chances, one of those who are made of unsavory meats but still can be good when eaten very slowly.

This idiot of a human is now on his feet fixed on the ground in line with his eye searching in the charade he thought I wouldn't notice. I just know he fails to expect he will not exceed my limit when all I see is his slim body that keeps having my beastly urge activated for countless reasons and equally countless ways. Look at his slender form, effortless to tear apart and re-assemble where I can picture his rib bones running over his torso while slowly gathering everything on his chest up through his neck, like a tube of paste as his lungs will be stuck on his skull and face. That was a new way into his misery and, on the other hand, fulfillment of mine. I'm yearning for where to begin.

"I know I'm tasty," distinctive filth overlaps on his unpleasant voice while dissuading a gaze. Yet he can't dissuade my upcoming violence as I begin the trail closer to his ground in a concealed hostility, "...but you're amazing, how did you heal from those filthy rots? You look tastier like that" but he caught my dangerous hand in the air greedy to unbone his neck, thus in return, he got the advantage of releasing his clutch as I fall on this painful ground.

Painful. Does it establish in my face? it's disrespectful if it did.

This corpse in the making seems to be too scared for my retaliation, that his move is too swift just to kneel down sitting over my stomach to be pressing the heavy weight of his hand around my neck —and he won over by maiming me for a while as I let him, "...you'll never find him if I die. Kill wisely," told with the use of his distasteful tongue and intolerable attitude of bravery I won't assume realistic. He's the new decays on my body in the worst form and texture for being this poor.

Wrong. Killing you would aid a ton as the rot in my path will be surely smoothened.

Crazed thirst has swollen my face, it felt too good to torch my impulses triggered to the maximum drive of overflowing needs, it's useful. The way his action is enacted is too shallow, I foreknow his desire to stab my face against the cross tomb next to mine and I'm not ashamed of deforming my neck by cracking my spine where the stone failed a touch, satisfaction in my face rotated into my nape surprising him from behind.

He's gone too hysterical, to this angelic face that he stuck upside down and had his own face ruined by the ugly horror he usually has. He shoved me off in unacceptance of what he saw, but that's a lovely detail of terror that pained his eyes witnessing the beauty of mere beautiful monsters can perform. I can see it, this creature is only brave when his enemy is afar, a braveness I can half compare to how growth is portrayed in a child evolving over time that I wish was no way I am.

My body then blasted and rollover, but I'm thankful for the motion's direction as it led my face swept against the dearest grave made of granite with an identically gorgeous name, cemented,

'Alas Wolf'

Died 7th of January 1980

I heard this strange whisper of past departing bloodcurdlingly through my ears, retelling my soul of forgotten will for a committed sin meant to be paid for. Still and all, my whole and entire soul will complete the deed for the addiction and for him —for myself, to feel his body, again, and evermore.