The woman’s corpse lay sprawled like some adult’s forgotten doll. Her mouth, stained by scream, underlined her strained facial muscles and eyes that terror had mutilated into bloated orbs.
Her ripped clothing exposed flesh from torso to thighs; the red of blood claiming her skin to a race of its own. Her left breast sat firm, perfect and dishonest. Her right breast testified reality. Or rather, the ragged hole where her nipple had been did. Teeth marks on the rest of her breast lent evidence to how it had been claimed.
Most tributaries ran from the wound to the cliff that descended into her belly. Here, it was as if a fire had been lit for the intestines were unrecognizable; blackened and fused together. The smile slit from side to side, widened by her betraying spine that had arched backwards and locked in death … or breakage.
The small room resonated with her pain. The crusted pipes leaked dirty tears onto the grimy floor. The tiny, high punched windows were shuttered with mouldy wood and rusted nails. The gaps that they offered were without hope for the light entered grey with indifference and vanished. It was a room that invited no guests but victims of its own kind.
Splotches deepened the floor colour, blacker on black, wettest beside the corpse and her deliverance which had ended upright in the most shadow infested corner.
The cocoon throbbed and bled…
I loved the concept of Marilyn Manson’s Superstar where the scared boy became the man to be feared, the worm become an angel, the rock superstar. At the same time he was saying that we’re all beautiful people no matter what others say. It was an incredibly dark yet strong affirmation of being oneself. I’d intended writing a full horror story as a parallel tribute but somehow this intro was all that surfaced many years ago.