The thud that hurt the ears, and then what? He was pulled from his cage and dethroned of a dog’s worth by an unseen connivance. In his wake, there were bloody spills mixed with the sting of wasps around every part of the skin, covered in cuts of sliding meets of flesh geometry. Whatever happened to the young boy, only sixteen of human? The blood spilled across the age of stone tiles, where tribunals were scattered with the frantic mind of a lunatic. His singing hives of the skin take a peek, with little eyes that seep into the surface with evading scrolls across every room’s corner. Nests and wasps hug the ceiling and walls, a long, familiar pain from earlier that night that is hard for him to remember. Tears crawl from some hives, their red sludge bulging out of the corner of eye sockets, slipping out like prisoners through lacrimal cells; as they do in the hive, it is also done in the arms.
“Thud!” Echoing muddle rings like a rippling pond. Muffles swirl like a scattering storm. “Thud!”
“How grotesque!” A mask is spread with odd curls above that of an animal’s features, strangely absurd on someone in a light brown vest and white sleeves so filthy, long unwashed in soils of brown and black.
The moment finds him inventing reasons to be not. The alarms of trauma tame the drooling mumbles that beg a please don’t, in a way that can only be not. It was not him. Neon finds him behind the eyelids, somewhere far away.
“Move! Move! You coward!” The masked man commands in a growl, then high-pitched once more to the boy, if he can remember.
Rings. They are blunt. Ricochet. Sickly with spins that turn into swinging feels, further unto the feeling from new front stops. Again, ringing, ricochet head feelings, from swings that spun and turn the darkening picture. File this under the shadows that move with swinging resemblance; it swings over the view, below a man, his moves bring shapes toward that grow once again in size, you couldn’t notice as much before—THUD!
“Why does the boy grow emptier!?” he says with a rev of grit and hate. His mask is revealed to be a grey stone rabbit shape.
“No! That hurt my ears!” The hived boy speaks with a cracking, shaky voice; unconsciously so, forgetting who he once was.
The eyes stare back into the boy; his hive eyes scream with a waking rapid eye movement. He sees the insanity-rot flashes, telling him by a hot, stomach-churning suggestion, “DO IT!” The seconds implode without hesitation; no hesitation breaks.
“AHHHHH!!!” Curdles and gurgles with the spirit’s will, breaking its vocal cord constraints like an awakened viper. Sixteen sat behind the window night, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen; his life is flashing alongside red spills from children’s eyes. Not before twelve, it never could have been without beginning. He is symbolic of hatred to something he cannot know, and some eyes can only pour blood onto their painful sights, heavily burdened with madness clarity. That childhood was meant to be mentally beaten flat out by wind inheritance, without understanding before, though sight rushes with answers unlike language.
The rabbit man stops with a rugged, broken fixture, and catatonia follows from each neo-terror shake-step ohm. Subterfuge: limbs break with a stiff thrill-pump override. Like springs against bondage, his body does not do one but both sweeping waves simultaneously; flooding waves erupt in explosions of flight or freeze, wrestling like bulls, one in red and the other in blue.
How would one know themselves to be placed in this position? How would one know how to be? There are moments of pause that weigh in between the urges, and they are empty. What of it? Where from? The hived one pushes past the feelings. His anger overtakes again.
In disguise as the abusive raven confining its rot, did they not know he was only sleeping? A vessel for magnitudal carnage; his ancient transpirance has chosen the lamb to slaughter. Pretending that the lost could be depraved alone, the garden snake was foolish to forget the constricting boa’s evil they had been sleeping upon, being no rival in hate-stature. The lashing of death rolls finds the rabbit, their prey-speed pounced by the spring fangs of ouroboros, and against the cold floor and folding walls.
He sees it. Hive jumps, seconds. Claws pinch through throat-length curtains, like wind through trees. Puncturing demonically as the hatred eyes find him cornered, a rabbit, bounded in leviathan’s choke-fingered grip. The beating snarls, the screaming apeback insanity, beating him godlessly, beating him and hissing as he thunders with concussions. Beating him corner deep, and deeper still. Finger throatshot claws meander deeper, from behind and under the throat, reaching underneath it and into his Adam’s apple, familiar to the Lucifer. This filth only reaches deeper.
Don’t know; the rabbit could not have. How does one do such ritualistic abuse? What drove them to do it? Not even the boy could know. The evil reflected in them brings them out further from themselves and deeper into the world. The world breeds dark corners, where humans, angels, and demons beat each other unknown and unknowingly, not understanding. The moment here finds them both in an instant flash, and then darkness overtakes the spark; violence wins. The hived boy is possessed still.
He has found his lonely corner on the ignorance of hatred pleads, begging through every belief that these locked doors were his evil, that this solitude torture-scape was their own. This was not humbling, not abuse, not traumatic; this is wrestling with Satan. Thunder, though this time from the sky, spills through the window as shadows cast distant branches. Blue flashes meet fresh blood spills. The tantrum of ignorance breaks, mumbling with old prides that still fight, then mumbles through a death-grip neck hold. The pride that fights says this is its oblivion and the hell it once ruled, but it dies like an elephant in quicksand. Claw-throat intercourse pounds every merciless nightmare into the soul, scarring it for twelve eternities.
Welcome to this outer darkness from inside the boy, where clay skin opens unto its pneumatic possession, the exhale of the one torn wing first by God. The barking of this boy’s volume also rips his own throat, pushed by an unfathomable boiling that comes from violent eternities, whose lostness denies even the daylight. We do not know life without the light, and the bridge unto the light was the boy. When the eyes opened, light entered the one who denied it. This is the now-pretend human until the light of the sun finds its way.
The father murdered by his own son. Curse and debt that infected sanity, unto an accident of a million head coin flips without tails; it was this pinball that found the sliver within a sliver for eternities straight, a cursed probability whose revenge is built upon the suffering from God’s hatred. The curse passed from generation to generation was mathematical in act; the painting of the most particular symbols by blood was stumbled into drunkly. Either the cutting of trees or sigil. It just happened that the father did not know to beat him there at that time in such a way, but he did anyway. This blindness led to the suffering.
This demon knew the suffering from God’s hatred unto themselves, having lived it forever. Endless rot, never-ending darkness of eyes and soul, the heart blackened to an outing to nowhere.
He was the alpha and omega of every omen’s haunting, haunting like a black hole’s mystery. The boy, now possessed, shakes at every limb in trembling paranoia of God’s galaxy, larger than its suffering and hatred. This vampire foams out of the mouth with a tribunal crimson glow across his muscles, shaking at every aspect of knowledge installed, downloaded with behind-the-neck whisper speeds, and by silk manic roads.
“NO!” The eyes grow further paranoid at the teenager’s cutthroat pleas; they flick more rapidly back against an accelerating knowledge beating. His thoughts are no longer like thoughts; he only sees all things in this moment, no longer just the single sense, no more. The sights found him, and from him. The seeing scars a soul that shares its clay housing from now on. The boy collapses.
On the floor, in blood. His nerves roll to a halt, off the stone and onto a ledge that wasn’t previously there. The floor gives way, and where his hands reach up, they also echo back from the place he fell from, where his past movements follow him. The sounds of something unheard make him sick; the dark familiarity causes a tingling temperature sway, the feeling both big and small in touch, far yet close. He rolls back into himself, finding only his selfless form. Darkness inside.
Where there is nothing. Gone. It followed from a speed, but from a fall. Familiar.
“Save this, your place…” Felt like a string too small between his unfounded, shaking hands, too much vertigo fuzziness in the extremities he cannot find. No memories, only knowing.
He sharply inhales as light rushes back into his eyes. He stares at the stone ceiling. Birds chirping like morning. Heartbeating.
“Yeah…” he says to himself calmly, with a little soreness in his throat.
He turns his head towards the window, where the branches sway with a green overtaken by the golden dawn. The stipes, prickling out with thorns, climb up and over the glass. He sees; it is just hard to remember, but he knows something different now. Did he die? He wonders this in the calm. Where he lay, there is a wetness on the hands beneath the shade, where the sun did not catch him before waking, and there is a loss of warmth in his limbs. He looks down and sees blood; he sees the hives still there. He believes those hives weren't there until last night.
“Why is this happening to me? What am I? Something feels true.” He thinks out loud, mumbling through a parched throat, warm from the sun.
He sees his dead father when he looks over. He can’t help but smile by accident as tears break over his bruised and bloody face; he cannot hold back the catharsis.
“What!?” He frowns, his voice trembling, as tears continue nevertheless, not minding his joy. He knows he should not be happy, but he thinks he understands why he can be.
He knows something awakened for a night, so what else does it want? After all, someone has heard him and cared for him once.