Crooked, bloodied, and incorrectly a figure stands, human before it met its mangler. The jagged point of a femur sticks out from its left thigh. Another bone protrudes through its forearm pointing to a hand that has been forcefully parted from the webs between each finger to its wrist, dangling as the figure sways, causing the femur to retract and come forth from the wound. Long, viscera-matted hair follows the arc of its swaying head as an afterthought. It begins to lurch forward, life-imitation pours from its wounds. Closed eyes. Opened eyes.
Abyssal void in my periphery, encroaching like fresh blood on snow. It alone stays untouched by the embrace of nothing. Its lurch becomes a slow shambling as its hair uncovers its face. Matte white hidden behind a veil of dried blood that still drips from its visage, causing the void around it to ripple. Closed eyes. Opened eyes.
It looks directly at something. Closed eyes. See what it sees. Me. It sees me. Opened eyes. Its own eyes meet mine. Its eyelids rapidly bruise and sink. Blood vanishes from its sclera to reveal an even brighter white than its skin as its iris washes into that same whiteness. Twitch. Jolt. Shudder.
Its shambling becomes a dysfunctional sprint, each limb vying for first in a race to reach me, unable to cover any ground. Its eyes lock into mine and it freezes. Inky blackness begins to seep from its eyes. It smiles at me, ink leaking like melted wax from its gums. My jaw clenches. Blink.
It’s in front of me, smiling mirthlessly. Its pupils become needles that become hooks into my own. It knows I am transfixed. I will myself backward. Still smiling, its head tilts and remains static in space as its body writhes and contorts, the discordant harmony of sundering flesh and snapping bones violently repairing itself as its head remains unmoving. It speaks to me.
“Still dreaming?” A cacophony of voices synchronize, the source not being its mouth. It slouches forward and vanishes. Blink.
Its nose is touching mine, eyes turn into a hard gray, its pupils darker than the nothingness around it. It pulls its head back, bumps starting to bubble under the flesh of its forehead. The bumps refine into fingers trying to pierce through soft plastic, unable to cause an entry. Smiling, the figure stares at me, dripping black and red, more ripples in the void. The fingers stop straining against the flesh. The void-ripples stop. Blink.
Two fingers shoot forward from each eye above the eyeball and squeeze. The eyes pop instantly as a thumb latches onto the figure’s upper lip. A second set of fingers emerge from under the figure’s tongue and grips its bottom jaw. Grimy nails dig into the figure’s face as both hands pull in opposite directions, the figure’s jaw rushes down its torso pulling any connected flesh with it like a strip of paper. Closed eyes.