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white feathers stuck in between white fangs, tearing, thick, sticky and viscous maroon keeping them from separation, a dove dying in the clutches of a jaw so strong yet cowering, molars blunt and crushing bones, he takes a minute to savour the warmth of whatever is in his mouth and then another minute to fear whatever blasphemy remains lodged within his teeth, between his palate and mandible, now stained red, coated in falsities and everything he doesn’t need his tongue to touch, let alone taste. he tries to scrape his taste buds, but they don’t leave. never.
unlike him, biggest fan of leaving, of course, scribbling notes upon notes with the most misshapen of hearts in an effort to soften the blow or just express himself or he doesn’t really know; the paper is wet and crimsoned, and he can’t see anything other than his shaking hand and the brutalised corpse of a bird sitting in front of him. he notices his lungs fill with feathers—but who is he to cough them out? he deserves a reminder, and, most importantly, he deserves punishment and retribution and rectification. there is nothing he has ever deserved more.
he folds the paper neatly, kisses it, it will be such a pretty thing once—if—it’s found; though it is as grotesque as they can ever get, he’s sure, if it's read by him, it will become so beautiful. he tries not to look at the bird now, too ashamed of its scrutinising eyes, and maybe only a little revulsed by the organs he didn’t stomach swallowing jutting out through architectural bones. he puts the paper, now in a tidier envelope, alongside blueprints, birth records, and any last incandescent divinity that flickered from the reflection of his teeth inside, safe, or safe enough from anyone who doesn’t have the directions yet. he wonders if they’ll all be burned down in the end.
he wonders if he should burn it down himself. was that his desire? he wouldn’t know; the other man definitely would, and he shouldn’t dwell on it.
appearance not as tidy as he wants it to be, and now he’s found the courage, or arrogance, to look back at the dove with its gnarled appearance. then he looks at himself and his hands, and they are as bloodied as his neck, he knows. it’s disgraceful at best; his goodbyes should be more composed and as thoroughly planned as his entire life has been up to now. he’s gotten messy. he’s gotten messy at the very time when he should specifically not be messy, and maybe it’s all just a sign that it’s the finale, finally, and he’s fulfilled even further from his purpose anyway, and he’s so ready to be disposed of. he has been ready. he blinks and feels something damp and mouldy seed itself in his lungs.
a single prick like a rose’s thorn finds its way inside his ribs, stinging, and thoughts well up where they shouldn’t. if regret is a given, then he shall damn it to hell; this fear, however, he cannot shake. in the wickedest of fashion, he will quite specifically not regret this. the most selfish he’s ever been, and he’s made peace regarding his brothers and loyal allies; he’s thought about it endlessly, and the sodden tunnel only led to acceptance, but now there stood an annoyingly vivid figure he can’t help but childishly outline with hearts and arrows. he wants to laugh, and his eyes reflect his thoughts, slightly. he regurgitates a breakfast he hasn’t eaten.
is it too cruel to leave a letter written by a dead man? nothing can be asked, or attained; no clarifications can be given; any further information will only be gleaned through constant rereading; and, even then, if a character is naturally sceptical they will find no solace but only emphasise their frustrations. he trusts, though, that his words will be understood instantly, that he has been clear enough, that they will serve their purpose, and that nothing else will happen. he will die knowing he’s been known by the only person he’s ever wanted to know him, and he will be happy, and his eyes will roll confessions when needed. for now, they stare at a cloying pile in front of his feet, emanating some pungent proclamation he doesn’t need to know.
he feels he should be tearing down banners with his bare teeth, stained-glass windows shattering back to colourful sand he can throw into his eyes so as to free himself from the throbbing headache of loud hues burrowing themselves deep into his body; he feels as though he should be ripping out his organs one by one, laying them out, studying them individually to make sure which of them, exactly, is rotten, and pumping his veins with sinful axioms that will simply do no good. he needs to expunge his body, rife with unfaith. it’s of the utmost despotism that he is unable to tear into himself, to close in on himself with his incisors and canines as he did for the bird, from the inside out.
he should be allowed to! isn’t it most oppressive? take pity on this poor man, unable to destroy himself no matter how much he wants to, too busy cowering to bite a chunk off himself. he recalls being born to fear, and fearing he does well. his teeth have already rotten anyway.
inability to cleanse himself of sin is apparent, impossible when his entire body bears witness, and he knows this well enough. he steals a final glance at something he isn’t even sure he can look at anymore and remembers the puddle of nauseatingly sweet vomit still in front of him, threatening to drag him in. he steps aside in retort; he needs to collect himself. he is going somewhere now, doesn’t really matter, and his thoughts are starting to fragment and are almost only phrases and nothing complete and Lord above when was the last time he felt complete? he closes his eyes and breathes in salty air, and suddenly he’s atop a vicious river, ready to do his eating for him.
if he had any sense of decorum left in his decomposing body, he’d smile, or laugh, or cheer, but he’s lowered himself willingly to an appetitive status, that of a beast, now only capable of feeling pleasure and instincts; he has no more space in his hollowed-out body for civility or dignity.
he prays nothing constituting a reminder of him ever survives. he is on his knees more brazen than he’s ever been his entire life, his begging and pleading dripping with depravity, and he is wailing, hoping that nothing of him can be remembered enough, that nothing of him remains to curse the man who knows with a chill, with cold fingers grasping at his heart; that would be the only fear left lingering in him even after his body is motionless and long gone, buried, dead and still as the river he’ll learn to love the floor of. he is praying until bruises find themselves on his knees and knuckles and forehead; he is praying until he circles back to losing his faith and until disillusionment paints him whole again. he is a shameless, warped man, but he still finds the audacity to keep loving. and he knows it’s because of that that he will lose.
there was no floor to familiarise himself with, after all, but only an ever-present scent of the other man’s body against his. he isn’t sure whether he’d consider this a triumph or an ardent, zealous defeat, and he thinks it doesn’t bear any significance, nevertheless, which one it is. in regards to the original agenda, he lost, as expected, but that expectation doesn’t take away the bittersweet whiff of conquest that remains mocking him in his plans, every single one of them that managed to crumble so swiftly, and the stench is as unbearable as it is syrupy, reinstigating a saccharine-induced headache, or, maybe, he’s just remembering it so well it feels as though his head hurts again. his head hurts. as does the rest of his body.
but that doesn’t really matter when he's closed in the remnants of his sharp, jagged and shattered teeth on a most unsuspecting yet willing victim. the other man may as well be dead now, and unfortunately, he has not the time nor relief to think something of that. it is a befitting judgement; he holds back laughter.
his prayers were evidently not heard; they fell upon deaf ears, for the cruellest reminder of himself did survive: himself. he is alive—begrudgingly—as ineffective as his body is at conveying that. he tries to blink with his eyes closed, and nothing meets him, but he can feel his pulse somewhere in his body, only his pulse and otherwise hushed, and that is more than enough, really. he is playing with strings again, and maybe this time he’ll come up with fifty more backup plans, each more intricate than the next and very sure of his victory. except he has nothing left to play with; he does not need to win anymore. he is tired, too. it has been too long since placidity, a swarm of butterflies, hungry, fluttered its way into his body, and he will be damned if he does not revel in this as the corrupt opportunist that he is.
maybe it is just mental isolation driving him mad, or maybe he hit his head a little too hard when they fell, but somewhere along his rest he finds an itch crawling up his arms, his boarish hunger igniting something he had long forgotten the feeling of, or maybe he never entirely felt it ever. it is no longer just his pulse beating against his ears and no longer just hopeful words he cannot quite discern. he has been toying with his fate, as against his will as it is, for far too long, and he finds his courage again amidst his resolve. he finds a rooftop to swallow his thoughts until the sun reminds him of colours he could only bear to see months ago.