It begins with blood pooling out of her head like a melted halo. Thick around the mouth region, where she has coughed up chunks of blood and spit, quietly shaking from post-mortem spasms. A mistake. And he is sitting there, on a chair. Tired.
It begins with no color in the world. With the whispers, white fingers on ivory keys, and a simple observation. Her mind has expanded beyond its normal limits, knowing before learned, and he knows where this will lead, how it will end.
There are stories in the shifts and jolts of memory and time that have beginnings and no ends. They are faint recollections—soft pulls of knowledge held particles above grasp, the fuchsia and violet that taste of sherbet on the tongue, that swirl in the place of how it begins and morph into the dread consequence of the end. Here only that which stays fresh in the mind lives, vivid and patiently waiting to remind its bearer of what came, what passed, and what may be to come.
For in the pits of memory there are great triumphs and even greater lies.
YOU ARE READING
The Rat King
ParanormalHe dubbed himself the Rat King when he foresaw the rodents crawling on his corpse, weaving in and out of his garments like a sensation, like a disease. Now he waits for them down in the ornate sewer home he fashioned. It is a fickle thing, the premo...
