I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
It doesn’t speak, not yet. With a small measure of disinterest Infection watches as the group continues to expand. Everyone is drawn to its odor, its presence, its purpose. They want to know what it is that is fouling their air and tainting their pine-riddled ground. Never before have they seen anything like it. It’s formulated from their nightmares, piecing together what they fear most: death, monsters, immortality. They threaten and they spat, twirling jabbing remarks into ears that are half-rotted. Much to their dismay, however, it remains unfazed by their remarks while waiting for them all to gather like crows. How bold they are, they think, and yet they’re huddled against each other seeking protection and encouragement.
What quaint little birds they are.
Its jaw unhinges in an apathetic yawn before rolling its eyes slowly toward the indigo mare. ”My, my, what a tough girl you are,” it inches toward her and observes the horns protruding down the length of her skull before leveling on her testing and hateful gaze. A noise claws at its throat and rips through the tension among them; it’s a laugh that hasn’t been heard in decades and contains the final screams of so many victims. It isn’t quick. The laughter hangs a long moment and is punctuated by a shake of its head. ”Go ahead, girl, run your horns through my throat. I’ll tell you what will happen,” it slithers ever closer, its breath reaching for her, ”Nothing. You can’t do shit to me, if you can’t tell.” Their closeness isn’t welcomed, it knows, and so it turns away and walks in a half circle to observe all that have arrived. ”It’s cute how you find the balls to speak when you’re in numbers,” it pivots to face the king again with its eyes lit with a savagery unleashed.
None of them introduce themselves. Why would they to such an abomination? So it returns the secretive notion and offers mere glances to the outspoken mares and curious stallions.
It can’t help but find the monarchs again and again, studying them, roving over their bodies. It can nearly taste their pulse and imagines the metallic taste coating its tongue. All the while it stands entirely still, staring with empty eyes. ”I know this kingdom far better than any of you so you can shove your arrogance up your asses and shut up. What can you do that I haven’t already dealt with?” It’s able to reach back to its shoulder and rip away flesh without even a flinch. The skin hangs limp in its jaws as it faces them indignantly. It waits for their reactions and feeds on their looks of disgust and surprise. Then the meat falls away and it chuckles, low and gravely. ”You’ve caught me on a bad time of year,” because it isn’t always like this; it isn’t always a skeleton with hardly any skin to cover the stained bone.
”I won’t die,” it murmurs into the piney air with their eyes planted, ”I can’t.” It savors the taste of the truth, grinning to itself as it allows them all to accept that horrid fact. Its son once tried to kill it; he had succeeded in murdering his mother, but not the father, not Infection. Its scars are what it carries now. Its body is dilapidated and a shadow of what it used to be. Tiphon didn’t realize what power he had actually given the nightcrawler (and yet it still wants more). An offhanded glance flickers toward the initially outspoken female before finding the ruling couple once more, speaking to them though directing its reply to them all. ”Don’t you know that legends never die?”
infection