A Nest Of Bugs

Original: this strange thing of yours

TW: gore, blood, asphyxiation

1 -

"i want to go home."

it whispers into the dark, knowing nothing is out there to hear it.

it stands outside, looking at the light from the building and knowing it's almost time to lock the doors. if it doesn't gather up the courage to go inside, the wind will carry it home and lock it back in the room full of duct tape and blackout curtains.

the wind blows stronger, following a car as it turns into the drive.

"i wanna go home," it mumbles again, staring at its shoes. but it isn't sure where home is. and home might be too far away to get to.

so it takes a step, biting its nails, putting one foot in front of the other. it looks up at the light inside. a small pull of the door, it opens, and they're back.

it goes inside and finds a seat by the wall, sitting down and putting its head on the table. and it listens to everyone who is still there as they go about their jobs.

2 -

It sits on the invisible wall, its feet dangling over the edge. The sweater is three sizes too big and hides its small body perfectly, keeping it warm. The color is a soft pink. It looks innocent. No one would think to blame it.

For the body at its feet, her hair ripped out and her clothes turned a dull shade of grey that matches her dead skin. It watches her, waiting for her to rot away so no one will know what she was. And she died painlessly. There is no blood to be seen, only the body and the being guarding it.

And then there is him, standing just a few feet away, his eyes fixed on the body of the girl. He looks at the body, then looks up at the one watching over him. It looks straight into his eyes, and he gives it a nod of thanks.

But it isn't truly to be thanked. One small favor will never make up for anything else.

Because his arms are tied behind his back and his mouth is sewn shut, blood still staining the thread that holds his lips together. And he feels at home in this body of his, but everything hurts and he's always too tired to fight back.

It smiles from inside the sweater, never breaking eye contact with him. It flicks its wrist and suddenly his neck is being squeezed, his chest bound tighter and tighter until it feels like he can't breathe. And the more he struggles, the harder it is.

He will never be able to win against it.

But as long as he plays along with these games, it might show mercy once or twice.

It might let him stay alive.