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Summary
"The first thing he wakes to is a hand.
There are vines, flowers, and curling leaves under the skin. blooming in bright psychedelic colors, almost as if breaking free of it. The veil seemed so thin; the tendrils seemed to press up against it. Maybe slowly, they would soon breach the layer containing them to revel and feast on the red filling the coffin. Blood was the only thing here, inhospitable and yet screaming with life. The voices rang in his ears; the pain sang. The flowers behaved, content not to writhe under the skin.
Why was there someone again? Who was this?"
Simon isn't lucid enough to care about reality, and frankly, I am too tired to care about canon. Here's some tenderness.
Series
- Part 1 of Monachopsis