October 8, 2018
He felt water in his ears, the pounding echoing against his temples in a terrible cacophony like drums. His eyelids were weighted with sand. In the darkness, he strained his ears to hear any form of sound. He heard voices in the same way as when you shouted into a moving train. They were broken into shards. When the most natural of his senses failed, he shifted uncomfortably, lifting his hands to guide himself off of the hard surface. It was in the span of a breath that he realized he had not done anything at all. He was lying flat, immobile, and paralyzed. It was then, as the voices writhed inside the lining of his skull, that he felt the fire burn on the edge of his skin. In a thin, searing line, he had felt his skin split open on the edge of his chest, just near his collarbone. The skin was delicate paper, severed by the tip of a pen dipped in ink. At the first sign of the trail etched into the metal of his chest, he cried out, a pitiful wail that only he heard. The second carving came, a wave of blistering heat that felt as if it tore a fissure into his ribs. Underneath the waves of pain, he felt a thought ring in his head.
YOU ARE READING
YAWP: A Collection of Short Stories
Historia CortaShort stories I have written over the past five years that I may never finish-ranging from a preacher who lied about the word of God to a little girl with monsters in her basement, these are all stories I wrote myself and may never continue. In the...
