He sat cross-legged, head leaning back against the cool tile.
He closed his eyes and brought his hands up to his chest, the skin wracked in tremors, likely in anticipation of what was to come.
His nails dug into the skin, and pulled.
The skin peeled back, revealing bone reminiscent of ivory and blood like red mud. His fingers curled around the ribs, and yanked.
CRACK
The sound, amplified by the high ceiling and tiled walls, echoed.
He relaxed, and something like a smile curved upon his lips.
He reached into the cavity of his chest,
And pulled out his heart.
A heart, depending on circumstances, can take many forms.
His was cradled in his hands, limp wings dangling, brushing his ribs.
From his chest he lifted a bloodstained dove.
And he smiled as he broke its neck.
YOU ARE READING
The colour of bone
FantasiaBits and pieces from stories written about a world in which you heart bursts from you chest in times of great trauma and takes a form to protect you in any/all conceivable way/s. I'm bad at summaries.
