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# Death Fetish Anon Shorts

By: mothpone on Dec 24th, 2013 | syntax: None | size: 5.91 KB | hits: 111 | expires: Never
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1. Insomnia.
3. Aching.
5. Thirst.
7. For what seems like ten thousand years you lie there, praying for sleep as your dry lips crack. No mercy comes to you, the illness robbing you of the respite you deserve. Cracking open painfully slow your eyes take in the gloom of the moonlight room as poorly as the noonday sun, burning and shedding tears.
9. As your head lifelessly lists to the left on your pillow the creature comes into view. You dismiss it as illusion or hallucination, you would reach through it to dispel the thought were the fever not sapping the strength of your arms. You cannot, and as the creature looms toward you the cold air pouring in from the open window cuts you like steel knives. Too late you realize that the monster is very real, and upon you.
11. Meekly you try to back away, your weak body and splitting headache fighting itself. When your hand finally manages to brush it's chest in defiance a powdery reside coats your hand, numbing it to the touch.
13. The mothlike monster seems to laugh at you, a noise like dry rustling leaves as it's proboscis curls and uncurls. His mighty wings spread wide, he bristles every hair on his chest to it's fullest. Looking twice his previous size he beats his wings once, coating you in his dander.
15. It seems to twinkle in the moonlight, too beautiful and ethereal to seem dangerous. Breathing in the dust you try to move your hand, to wave the choking cloud away.
17. Most of the meat is missing from your fingers where they brushed his coat. The pitted bones of the palm dangle there, held on by liquefying flesh strands. Deep pockmarks are forming on your forearm and your bare chest, tiny mushrooms seem to flourish on your blankets and grow rapidly as your flesh fades.
19. You cough, the painless ruby red pouring from your mouth like water from a pitcher. The moth's proboscis stabs through your chest with a wet pop, though you feel no more than a pinch. Dreamlike stupor overcomes you, your final thought thankful that your lips are wet
20. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
21. Cold wind cuts at your face, breathing is as drawing knives up your nostrils. In the bitter chill of the late autumn cold snap the rustling of the leaves gently fills your stinging red ears. In your pockets your hands find no warmth, another viscous gust of wind fights you back, pressing you away from home. Your only option is to steel yourself and force your way through, the cold shivers your bones in protest. The wind relents for a moment, no longer penetrating your clothes as easily as though they were mesh.
23. As you walk the gentle shifting of the dry leaves continues, a soft and reassuring background noise. Were your mind not blanked out by the unnatural cold you might have missed that the air around you was as silent and still as death.
25. You turn to see him. The moth. The thing. It's large quadrupedal body bristles with a fluffy, downy coat, it's horrifying insectoid head the visage of your nightmares. When it's wings spread wide you realize your time to run has been lost, as he reveals the fractal patterns on the insides of his wings a terrible spell comes over you. Your mouth opens to scream, but he drinks all your voice from your throat. He walks toward you, dry leaves crisp with frost popping beneath his insect hooves. His segmented eyes are darker than black; they are the void, and they eagerly drink in the light of the setting sun and leave only a shadow upon you.
27. You've fallen, you can't recall when. The beast before you overtakes your backward struggle, where his forked hooves tap your legs they drop dead, numb to you. You are soon paralyzed in the extremities, who begin to ache without you yet obey no command. Inside your core you toss and heave as it settles upon your chest and unfurls it's proboscis.
29. Pleading does not occur to you, hope is forsaken and foregone. It's needle pierces your sternum without more than a pinch, as every drop of heat leaves your body no merciful veil of death is thrown over your eyes. Your desiccated body curls into a leaf
30. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
31. Wood scratches on sandpaper.
33. Sulfur tickles your nose.
35. Darkness retreats from the light, with it's short life the match shares it's flame with the candle. He dies shortly thereafter in the small brass basin of the candlestick holder. His flame lives on, growing taller as it feasts on the melting wax, stretching higher and higher and giving his light freely. You carry the candle nowhere, you remain seated. It is not to guide you, it is not for you. You appreciate it's beauty, although he appreciates it in a way you never could.
37. It arrives with a cold breeze and the scent of dust. The huge creature prowls as though it hardly weighs an ounce, it's cloven hooves tiptoeing and it's wide wings splayed open. He ignores you, although you know your time is limited. To your side he comes, looming over your side to indulge in the light. From the corner of your eye you dare to look in his, ten thousand flames dance reflected in the segments.
39. Beauty distracts you from his fluffy tufts, each of the hairs needle-like and sharp, betraying their soft appearance. It sinks into your flesh, the small tendrils penetrating effortlessly and poisoning your body. Arm and chest grow numb to the command, not the touch. Trapped by his side you both watch the candle burn, the longest and shortest hour of your life.
41. Moon low in the sky the thirsty wick smolders, it's wax dry. It's dying flickers excite the moth, his raspy chortling familiar to you. The same hoarse noise has followed you for years and a day, and no longer.
43. As the proboscis lances your paralyzed side a great coldness comes over you. Blood draining rapidly your vision swims, your flame flickering. It isn't so bad. After all, you're keeping a much brighter flame light in your stead.
45. And that is the order of the world.

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Insomnia. Aching. Thirst. For what seems like ten thousand years you lie there, praying for sleep as your dry lips crack. No mercy comes to you, the illness robbing you of the respite you deserve. Cracking open painfully slow your eyes take in the gloom of the moonlight room as poorly as the noonday sun, burning and shedding tears. As your head lifelessly lists to the left on your pillow the creature comes into view. You dismiss it as illusion or hallucination, you would reach through it to dispel the thought were the fever not sapping the strength of your arms. You cannot, and as the creature looms toward you the cold air pouring in from the open window cuts you like steel knives. Too late you realize that the monster is very real, and upon you. Meekly you try to back away, your weak body and splitting headache fighting itself. When your hand finally manages to brush it's chest in defiance a powdery reside coats your hand, numbing it to the touch. The mothlike monster seems to laugh at you, a noise like dry rustling leaves as it's proboscis curls and uncurls. His mighty wings spread wide, he bristles every hair on his chest to it's fullest. Looking twice his previous size he beats his wings once, coating you in his dander. It seems to twinkle in the moonlight, too beautiful and ethereal to seem dangerous. Breathing in the dust you try to move your hand, to wave the choking cloud away. Most of the meat is missing from your fingers where they brushed his coat. The pitted bones of the palm dangle there, held on by liquefying flesh strands. Deep pockmarks are forming on your forearm and your bare chest, tiny mushrooms seem to flourish on your blankets and grow rapidly as your flesh fades. You cough, the painless ruby red pouring from your mouth like water from a pitcher. The moth's proboscis stabs through your chest with a wet pop, though you feel no more than a pinch. Dreamlike stupor overcomes you, your final thought thankful that your lips are wet ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Cold wind cuts at your face, breathing is as drawing knives up your nostrils. In the bitter chill of the late autumn cold snap the rustling of the leaves gently fills your stinging red ears. In your pockets your hands find no warmth, another viscous gust of wind fights you back, pressing you away from home. Your only option is to steel yourself and force your way through, the cold shivers your bones in protest. The wind relents for a moment, no longer penetrating your clothes as easily as though they were mesh. As you walk the gentle shifting of the dry leaves continues, a soft and reassuring background noise. Were your mind not blanked out by the unnatural cold you might have missed that the air around you was as silent and still as death. You turn to see him. The moth. The thing. It's large quadrupedal body bristles with a fluffy, downy coat, it's horrifying insectoid head the visage of your nightmares. When it's wings spread wide you realize your time to run has been lost, as he reveals the fractal patterns on the insides of his wings a terrible spell comes over you. Your mouth opens to scream, but he drinks all your voice from your throat. He walks toward you, dry leaves crisp with frost popping beneath his insect hooves. His segmented eyes are darker than black; they are the void, and they eagerly drink in the light of the setting sun and leave only a shadow upon you. You've fallen, you can't recall when. The beast before you overtakes your backward struggle, where his forked hooves tap your legs they drop dead, numb to you. You are soon paralyzed in the extremities, who begin to ache without you yet obey no command. Inside your core you toss and heave as it settles upon your chest and unfurls it's proboscis. Pleading does not occur to you, hope is forsaken and foregone. It's needle pierces your sternum without more than a pinch, as every drop of heat leaves your body no merciful veil of death is thrown over your eyes. Your desiccated body curls into a leaf ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Wood scratches on sandpaper. Sulfur tickles your nose. Darkness retreats from the light, with it's short life the match shares it's flame with the candle. He dies shortly thereafter in the small brass basin of the candlestick holder. His flame lives on, growing taller as it feasts on the melting wax, stretching higher and higher and giving his light freely. You carry the candle nowhere, you remain seated. It is not to guide you, it is not for you. You appreciate it's beauty, although he appreciates it in a way you never could. It arrives with a cold breeze and the scent of dust. The huge creature prowls as though it hardly weighs an ounce, it's cloven hooves tiptoeing and it's wide wings splayed open. He ignores you, although you know your time is limited. To your side he comes, looming over your side to indulge in the light. From the corner of your eye you dare to look in his, ten thousand flames dance reflected in the segments. Beauty distracts you from his fluffy tufts, each of the hairs needle-like and sharp, betraying their soft appearance. It sinks into your flesh, the small tendrils penetrating effortlessly and poisoning your body. Arm and chest grow numb to the command, not the touch. Trapped by his side you both watch the candle burn, the longest and shortest hour of your life. Moon low in the sky the thirsty wick smolders, it's wax dry. It's dying flickers excite the moth, his raspy chortling familiar to you. The same hoarse noise has followed you for years and a day, and no longer. As the proboscis lances your paralyzed side a great coldness comes over you. Blood draining rapidly your vision swims, your flame flickering. It isn't so bad. After all, you're keeping a much brighter flame light in your stead. And that is the order of the world.