Rage sears its heart, maddens its eyes, all it can do is stifle roars soaked with bestial anger. Its raking claws shred the air and skin in the way, flesh is rived from clean white muscle and pearly bone. Blood gushes out of the wound, a dam holding back the sea of life, protecting it from ebbing and flowing away. Scavengers gather then scatter, as fangs shear nerves, tendons and bones as if by primal hunger. Bones shatter under the bludgeoning teeth.
Clever yellow eyes flickering in the dim light of her living room, a space clean and uncluttered from the clutter of company. She watches with lips turned up in a sneer, sitting observing her traitorous creation, an ugly foolish thing, embodying destruction, in all of it forms. She could catch it now and snuff out its rebellion but where would there be challenge in that? To break a young spirit without the armor or the protection gained from worldly experience.
It seeps in through the vent, swirling darkly like some virulent plague poised to kill, burning and melting. The cries are gutteral, begging for the pain to stop, they don't stop it. It falls deafly on ears apathetic unhearing, skin peels before studious eyes, they examine its effect recording torment after torment they inflict. Repeating the horrors everyday, time blurs like its unshed tears, it is alive, but not living. A creature seeking, yearning to belong in a hateful world.
Drugs cloud a pain addled mind, it utters pained cries unaware of itself other than the agony. The tormentors, those who call themselves doctors are on the other side with apathetic hearts, studying the damage of their torturous equipment. It cannot gather the tremendous strength held back from its body, its desire to make sense of this is spurned by a new stronger emotion, hatred. Finally, it falls to the mercy of unconscious.
The silvery weaves of spider thread, prickly leg knitted art both divine and ephemeral. The artists, creatures who work life away with no room for the frivolity of play watch the silly flies flit and dance in the air on wings of veined glass. They are the unfortunate who get ensnared within a sticky quilt that the sun warms. Happily reminding others of life's folly, the spider dines with wine tonight. A lazy cat pokes a fat mouse in a corner. Run, mouse, run.
Emerald trees choke the sun shunning the plants below from the golden light. The will be no burned tubers or suntanned mushrooms. Delicate white blooms poke their sunny faces out of the grass. Lovingly a deer nibbles the tender shoots, committing infanticide on neighboring plants. Frogs leap into prickly green grass sliding their slimy bumpy skin like cucumbers racing across the patch. A sun warmed watermelon sweats off morning dew and greets the brilliant day.
A blood choked scream laces the air with gurgles, speckles splash a face the hideous stains embedding themselves. It is rending and raking flesh bloodily into sanguine pools of gore. It stops and balks at the visceral scene it made. Anger climbing in and out dragging its claws with a tail like a serpent whipping the air. It stands contemplating the violent world guilded falsely with white gold and bloodlessness. Beauty lives and dies here in the forest.
The silver moon with its pewter light shines and blazes through the ebony night. Virid leaves tender with wetness tongues pale skin, dew settles in the cool night air clinging to amber hair, soaking a pearly dress. Lacey moths flitter about, the dusting of their wings shimmering in a halo of light. Grass tickles unclothed feet and the eyes sigh, wearily closing t the world.