(c) Worm-Black. (R)

by Heartswell. Sun 07 Dec 2008, 11:56 pm

Title: Worm-Black.
Author: Moi you have pleased him

Rating: R. Very descriptive gore. >_>
Status: One-shot.

Out of It.

The room is stained with blood.
And she's writhing like a fucking worm being dangled in sour bloody acid devouring every last bit of flesh sleeping on its boneless guts.

She's covered in cuts; cuts, cuts, cuts, fucking blue and black cuts retching black blood and violently violet clots.
And she's screaming; screaming her head off, screaming her lungs out, screaming, screaming, screaming like a wounded hurricane gulping down the sound of crushed bones and soft rancid skulls.

The cuts are splattering lurid black blood, all over her gown, all over her arms, all over her legs.
And she's still screaming. Screaming at the walls, at the mirror, at the girl behind the mirror with the same sinful black hair and similar bright roaring apple-verdant eyes, crippled with a bent smile and those wicked gray-dead coronas hugging and kissing her eyes.

The blood was still sluicing her every sense and every scream, her wounds were still open and gurgling charming-black liquid drenching the floors and splashing across the silent walls while the girl behind the mirror grinned and stared back at the melanic war between limbs and crunching deadly sounds.

She's running her hands through and within her fresh-green gown, hoping it'd run out and away from her veins and she'd finally see comforting red, but all that came out was ink-black messes soaking her bones and tears; and screams.

Her screams hit a new notch in the cold rigid cement heart of the walls as they bleed despair, despair, mad bleeding despair. The threads of voice leaping out of her strained vocal chords shiver and cry with gritty panic and muscle-splitting agony, wavering in her bruised hips and hidden purple-green torso.

The girl in the mirror is all polished and clean, still watching the macabre mix of shrieks and bones break and spit licorice-black congealed veins, twiggy and branched up to her fucking bloodless heart. The ice-pale face looking back at her, asphyxiated with wails and electrocuted storms of noise, was begging, crawling, kissing the cold ghostly glass where she sat, motionless and emotionless. Just showing off that smile hemorrhaging apathy and content.

Cold cold dry-ice smile that bites off your skin and lips.

And she keeps bleeding; she keeps bleeding from the slick cuts and the bruises swelling up beneath her skin, ugly pretty bubbles of wax-paper-thin skin holding all the watery ink exhumed from her insides.
Her heart-black hair is sodden with feverishly black liquid seeping from her fingers, from every hole in her body, between her thighs, from within her lips, under her eyelids, and her screams...

They fucking sprayed misery and curled smoke at the black-spotted walls, whispering against her temples and hissing beneath her skull. She screams some more, watching wormy laces of satin-smooth black peel and spill from beyond her cuts as the lurid puke-green eyes in the mercury-glazed wall gloated at her, each drizzle of inwardly crumpled smiles caused splashed of inwardly convulsing muscles, spasms painting her skin rash-like glaring carmine mixing with stewing invading blue.

Like the brewed dead sins dropping at her feet and crawling beyond her skin, killer-red phantoms and ghastly-white sinew moved within her arms, sketching brutal zombie portraits bruised with broken nerves and split rosebuds of revolting indigo, and howling within her ribcage like insane golden beads trapped inside a dampened rattle-toy.

And mirror-girl smiles wider, witnessing the clamoring voice of the black-haired beauty throb like vines grappling the desolate desert-dry walls, raked and reflected off of the corners of the disturbed room in the frightful image of shakes and ripples shooting through her frayed skin and devastated fingernails, bleeding burning rotten black from underneath the crisp layers of lean translucent bone.

She struggles to keep her hands from quaking against the bayonets of hurt copulating through her veins and lacherous cuts of skin, sewn with hemmed diamond-sparkling beads concocted of shrieks and wriggling ribs rubbing against coats of her indigo adorned skin.

She's gasping for air, and spitting tears against the glass of the mirror that reeked of toxic delusions and smiles smearing her mind and waning alabaster-corroded joints; stiff, numb and dithering under piqued shades of dying white-gray.

Under her breaths and under her skin, her heartbeat drummed and crumbled oxidised dying cells of fearful blood, curling and twisting over itself and over her throat and veins, little black worms shrugging off her flesh and lifeless intestines.

Phantom-white hands grasp and coddle her back as she's pissing petroleum-ink and creeping on the floor like a drowned serpentine; cold and bloated with frozen charcoal lungs, bruised silent-movie white and black.

And like a negative set eaten by caustic lips, her skin turned rigid sepia with fingerprints marred and hips crumbled, black as sin hair converted to an ashen gray along with seared-apple eyes leaking Christmas green and red that's melting into her mouth whilst those snowy fingers clawed her bark-stiff arms and tied her into the unfriendly metal of the bed fed with hurtful wooden planks and prickly feathers, all digging into her and embedding unseen plagues and infused pains.

She's dying dying dying and melting into their wax-cold arms and swirling on the sheets choking on black and jagged shriveled skin.

She's gasping for oxygen-laced air like she's six feet under, tongue-pink insides turning sinister navy-mauve shades, throttling her radiating screams pouring like blood-stained snow; you're afraid to catch it on your tongue but you want to so badly, battling disgust and lust for ice-laced rust.

It's not her fault that she can't breathe; it's not her fault that she's bleeding her soul and she's being branded with deadly white marks upon her darkened thrashing body. It's not her fault that mirror-girl wants to get out and those wormy black twigs that bled and clotted within her arms are now black as sin silky hairs, hugging her fingers and rupturing her veins.

The imperfect pristine white of the ceiling is smirking at her now, cracked plaster slipping off of its lips and onto her damp gown, dissolving into dull scary grey clinging to her paper-blanch skin.

The taunting white mixed and swirled now, with the gray-red shadows sighing on her distorted vision; it mocked her deceased screams, all dead and decayed on her inky lips. She's falling into the ruby-blue bruises lying behind her eyelids where she's seeing those reckless cold green eyes -clones of hers- dancing between all those smug defunct skeletons jumping in and out of the backdoor of her mind, released by delayed medications and useless painkillers. Those eyes and bones broke into laughter whenever she'd sob her nightmares away. Cruel laughs, scorching like the wounds decorating her arms.

Coal kisses smothered her back in restless heaps, weighing on and crushing the dorsal aches whirling under those sheets of skin floating over the back of those ribs.

The room is still stained with blood, except for that mirror.
So clean and untainted, radiating with sweet sweet celestial lights.

But no mocking eyes and wavy grinning hair.
Only lean little burgundy handprints, dripping crumbles to the floor and trailing spider-leg patterns to the door; and through her cloudy red eyes she saw those small footprints running in halves, to outside of that jail-thick door.

And she's screaming again; all over her throat and gown.