Thursday, September 13, 2012

The Rotting by Jonathan Moon

I am turning out to be one rotten bastard.

The hollow screams and endless whimpers and sustained moans permeating my basement all testify to my boast. The reek seeping through the floorboards and the molding cracks in the wall assists in combating my loneliness. The air is still and stale, coppery and slick, and it grows neon molds on my scabs. I’m rotting from my soul out.

I never aspired to become the decayed moral specimen I have become. However, to be honest, once the rot began I did nothing to hinder its all-consuming spread. It happened slowly- the way the groom grows bitter at the bride, the employee grows weary of the employer, or the people grow tired of their gods. I scratched the itch and spread the infection.

Perhaps my manners died first, a casualty in the mass death of social niceties. With no concern to waste on others my conceit became so greedy it cannibalized itself. It found the taste of spoiled meat violently addictive. I quit troubling myself with flushing public toilets. I instituted my own traffic laws and mating rituals. I forgot the meaning of apologies and promises. Though the bruises have always been there, purple and green just under my skin, I wasn’t coughing up the thick brown blood clots. The thick brown blood clots in the unmistakable shapes of knives came once the rot took hold of my insides. These filthy hands are familiar with the weight of blood slick knives.

I follow the signs the rot shows my in the horrible visions it offers as condolence for feasting on my organs and soul. I carve the symbols, those strange clunky runes that haunt my dreams like grave mold, into their flesh but no emotion stirs. I feel the blackness, so hollow and warm, gnawing at my innards. I see it in the neon veins spread under my pale flesh like decaying lightning. My scars and rot are beautiful, eternal, and plentiful but that doesn’t make me any friends. Who needs friends when you have an enemy like me?

I’m rotting from my soul out.

My guts are mush. My skin is peeling. My mind is filth. My knife is dull.

(This story is from my upcoming collection of horror flash fiction entitled Everything Is Gonna Be All Right and Other Out and Out Lies.)

If you enjoyed it you can find more of my scribblings below...



Stories To Poke Your Eyes Out To



Stories To Poke Your Eyes Out To

Hoo-Doo County Horrors

The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole (with Timothy W. Long)

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