The room was silent as Sullivan drifted into an uneasy sleep, his body curled tightly under the tattered blankets. But as soon as his eyes shut, the world around him shifted, pulling him into a dark, twisted landscape-one that felt both foreign and all too familiar.
Sullivan stood alone in a place that defied reason, the ground beneath his feet soft and wet, like pulsing, living tissue. The air was thick with the stench of decay, a cloying rot that filled his lungs and clung to his skin. The world around him writhed and moved, as if it were alive. Walls of flesh towered over him, grotesque and undulating, each surface slick with blood and sinew. Veins throbbed beneath the surface, and everything-every wall, every corner, every crevice-beat with a slow, rhythmic pulse, like the heartbeat of some monstrous, unseen being.
The walls seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting, the sound of wet muscle sliding over bone filling the air. Sullivan stared, mesmerized by the horrific sight, unable to look away. The walls of flesh were alive, their movements erratic, shifting and contorting as if in pain, or pleasure. Thick ropes of muscle twisted through the landscape, binding the entire world together in a grotesque, pulsating web.
Everywhere he looked, the ground beneath him oozed with a dark, viscous liquid that stuck to his shoes, pulling at him like quicksand. He tried to move, but with each step, the fleshy ground squelched, pulling him in deeper, the beating of the walls quickening as if it sensed his presence.
A sound broke through the pulsing-a low, guttural scream. Sullivan's heart raced, but his lips curled into a grin. He knew that scream. He knew the voice.
Ahead of him, tangled in a web of muscles and tendons, was his brother, Richard. His body was being pulled toward the fleshy walls, his limbs flailing wildly as he tried to fight against the pull. But the more he struggled, the tighter the muscles wrapped around him, dragging him toward the living wall that seemed to hunger for him.
Richard's face was contorted in terror, his mouth open in a silent scream as the fleshy walls reached for him, tendrils of sinew wrapping around his arms, pulling him in. His body jerked violently, trying to free itself, but it was useless. The wall wanted him, and it wouldn't let go.
Sullivan watched, his grin widening as he took a step closer. He could hear the wet squelch of the flesh pulling Richard in, could see the terror in his brother's eyes as his body was swallowed whole by the wall. The muscles flexed and contracted around him, squeezing, twisting, crushing. Blood spurted out in thick, viscous streams, painting the walls red.
And Richard's face... oh, that face. His once arrogant sneer was replaced by pure, unfiltered fear. He was trapped, and no amount of strength could save him now. His arms disappeared first, then his legs, as the wall sucked him in like a predator devouring its prey. His screams grew fainter, muffled by the thick layers of flesh that enveloped him.
Sullivan's heart raced in exhilaration, watching as the man who had tormented him for years was consumed, piece by piece. The sight was intoxicating. The walls trembled, shuddering with pleasure as they claimed Richard, his form disappearing into the grotesque landscape until there was nothing left but the sound of wet chewing, and the steady beat of the living walls.
Sullivan's grin stretched wider than it ever had before. His hands twitched, his breath shallow as he watched the last traces of Richard vanish into the flesh. It was perfect. Beautiful, even. His brother was gone, swallowed by the very nightmare that mirrored Sullivan's own dark desires.
Suddenly, the beating around him intensified, a deep, resonating thrum that filled his head, vibrating through his bones. The walls of flesh convulsed, as if the whole world were coming alive around him, reaching for him, craving him. Tendrils of muscle slithered toward his feet, ready to pull him into the grotesque pit.
But Sullivan didn't flinch. He didn't move. He just stood there, grinning, reveling in the horror, in the twisted nightmare of his own making. The walls pulsed, the beating grew louder, until it drowned out everything else.
And then, with a jolt, he woke up.
His eyes snapped open, and he was back in his room, his chest rising and falling quickly. But the grin on his face didn't fade. The dream had left him with a sense of power, of control. He could still hear the beating in his ears, still feel the sick satisfaction of watching his brother be devoured.
Sullivan sat up slowly, wiping the sweat from his forehead, his body still thrumming with energy from the dream. It wasn't just a nightmare. It was a promise. A vision of what was to come.
He glanced over at his desk, where his notebook lay open, filled with his drawings, his plans, his obsessions. And next to it, the knife-gleaming, sharp, waiting for him. Sullivan reached for it, his fingers wrapping around the handle, the cool metal comforting in his palm. He rubbed the blade up and down, feeling the weight of it, the power it held.
A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face as he kissed the blade softly, his mind already racing with thoughts of what was to come.
"Soon," he whispered to himself. "It'll all be real soon."
Downstairs, his father was slouched on the couch, a beer in one hand and his phone in the other. The television flickered with mindless images, but he wasn't paying attention. His voice was low, muttering into the phone as he talked to his sister.
"I don't know what to do with him anymore, really," he said, his words slurred from too many drinks. "Sullivan... that boy's a freak. A real weirdo. Sits in his damn room all day, scribbling away in that notebook of his. I swear, sometimes I think he's planning something. The kid ain't right in the head."
Sullivan stood in the hallway, listening to every word, his grip tightening around the knife. His father's voice grated on him, every word dripping with disdain and judgment.
A freak. A weirdo.
Sullivan's lips curled into a sneer. Oh, he'll pay, he thought (once again). His father would pay for everything, just like Richard, just like the rest of them. His father wouldn't shut up about him, just like yesterday, he said the same thing.
It was only a matter of time.
---
𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚢, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝙶𝙾𝙳.
