𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 • WRITING SCRAPS

A bouquet of flowers (and a vase for one)

somebody dies in detail , it made somebody sick so theres that!
will have "BIG FAT WARNING" when it starts dw (wrote it on discord :mechanical_arm:)

The sound of a doorbell rang throughout the run-down and moulding apartment. It had been a quiet day, and they were content staying still and not moving, maybe to get food now and then but for the most part, resting.

When some would be happy to have something break up a dull routine, they were not. Some would rush to the door in happiness, those informed maybe in unease, but the brunette groggily made their way to the door, already feeling tired.

When they got up from their couch, the sound of springs shifting could be heard, a loud and jarring sound at that. As the person shifted their feet towards the door, something in their gut was telling them to not take another step, a mantra of 'they are here' ringing through the mind of the brunette. They knew they should have stopped, but the days were empty now, nothing to drive them.

The doorbell rang again.

Speeding up, the brunette called out, "I'm coming," leaving their throat. They knew that they had just sealed their fate, doomed to watch as more suffer, doomed to see forever, but they didn't care. They just wanted their suffering to be done with first. Call it greedy, but it's the truth.

A bird chirping could be heard from a window to their right, looking over, the person saw it had no eyes. That was becoming more common as the days went by.

Finally reaching the door, they heard footsteps running away, to the right where the staircases where, but it wasn't surprising, they always ran.

Reaching out and unlocking the door was easy, it was just a slider lock after all, and they twisted the handle. When looking at what had killed 57 people, you'd expect something sinister, but no, it was a simple brown, leather book, it was probably once a diary.

Tracing their hands along the edges, front spine and back of the book, it was obvious it was old, hell it could probably go in a museum it seemed that worn. But they knew better, in here were batches of hand drawn ink flowers, well they seemed to be ink, but it was blood, and the flowers were the eyes of those that had seen the insides of the book in front of them, if you looked long enough you would see the pupils of them, staring, watching.

They knew what they were about to feel would hurt, they had seen the videos. It was painful but fast.

Running their fingers along the edges of the cover, they opened the book. On the first page sat a bouquet of 30 flowers, they were beautiful. The blood didn't disgust them, it would have once but they'd seen enough from the videos to no longer be put off by it.

This page was safe, it had all been filled. The second page however was not, they knew this and still turned to it. When they had expected a wave of pain and then nothing, they felt nothing. Their eyes widened, were they dreaming? They are meant to be dead. In their confusion, they didn't see the empty vase on the page next to it. One small and slim, but transparent to see through. The shadows around them moved, mad at the disturbance of a dark magic.

They didn't realise there was something else until it was too late. turning their head after looking at the bouquet of 27 flowers, they saw a singular vase. It was too small to fit more than one flower but big enough to take up half the page. They were puzzled, and then a pain fun like any that had felt before erupted in their stomach.

The shadows were mad, and they wanted to be heard.

BIG FAT WARNING HERE

They felt their stomach being sliced, slowly diging in, slowly killing them. Their throat was cut, a deep gash, stopping them from talking, from screaming. The shadows didn't like voices, most certainly not ones that screamed until they could no more.

The muscle, fat and skin on their stomach had been shredded, and they felt non-vital organs start to be removed as they collapsed onto the floor. They felt blood running across their body, practically swimming in it. They swear that they didn't want to look down, but they had to.

They wish they didn't.

Cuts, deep, bleeding cuts all along their body, a knife (maybe more) seemed to have made them, but there were none in sight, only the shadows too sharp, only the shadows that shouldn't even be moving.

They could see inside themselves, they could see how they were missing their small intestines, which were sprawled out across the floor, and they could see how much blood was around them, but most importantly, they could see the vase start filling with a red liquid, they could see the vase filling with *their* blood. They could see chunks of flesh in it, they could see some of their missing organs in it.

They felt gashes start appearing on their face and over their chest, and they felt the area around their eyes being poked at.

They felt a cold *thing* dig both of them out.

They were looking at their ceiling now.

They couldn't hear, or think for that matter.

Now they could hear. They could hear the sounds of flesh being torn, blood spilling, and the slushing sound of organs being removed.

But they didn't think. Not once. They knew it was them being torn up, ripped apart and fed into the vase.

But not once were they scared, not once did they want to be free.

They couldn't think or feel those feelings, ones of fear or longing.

But then they could think and feel.

They couldn't remember what had happened.

They couldn't remember if they wanted to think or feel, they felt like they may have wanted to, but that doesn't matter. Right now they are calm, that matters.

The water in the vase is thick, with clumps of pink and red floating in it. The water was also the wrong colour. It was too red to be water.

They could remember what they wanted now.

But they couldn't care. The calm was nice, they didn't want to leave it. They didn't want anything now though, so maybe that doesn't count as much as it might have once.

They are a blue flower now, a forget-me-not if they were correct.

Being a flower was nice, the water was staining their stem though, they'd need more to change it again soon.

The flower closed its eyes, the book closing with it.