“We’re going to make sure you never come home,” they sing, voices humming with the drone of unison. Thorn watches with wide, unbelieving eyes as they rush in. He closes his eyes as the pain settles in, incapable of watching any longer. Some have fangs and some have claws, but they all dig into his flesh with the same fervor. Blood drips and drips and drips with each dragging step Thorn is forced to take. Soon the white of his fur is soaked in red and pink.
A trail of blood is illuminated by the crimson fungi that leads to the colossus. The blood loss leaves Thorn nearly delusional so a choked laugh escapes his mouth at the thought of following his own blood back to safety. Because that is how it would work, right? he thinks. The blood would take me back to the chamber, and surely that’s a better fate than here. Here being in front of the distorted parent of all of his nightmares. Thorn knows on instinct what this monster is supposed to mean to him:
An ending.
He, the father, and me, the mother, the blood-covered sabino thinks deliriously. All of my hateful loved ones our children. Bile rises violently up his throat, so quickly that it spews from his mouth, yellow and just as warped as the rest of his surroundings.
“Please don’t leave me,” Thorn manages to moan as his family prances to the open mouths of the star. Even now, beneath the weight of his convictions and their hatred, he is too weak to let them leave without pleading. “Please, no,” he sobs, falling to his knees and cracking torn flesh and bone against the stone. But the creature chews them all, a separate mouth for each eager duplicate, and all Thorn can do is wallow in the noise of their demise.
The worst part is the joyous death, the way they do not cry out in pain—
the worst part is the joyous death—
(We’ve returned to you, oh loving father.)
—the way they do not cry out in pain.
Thorn’s maddened laughter peals across the monster’s bedchamber. He laughs loud and hearty, boyish noise echoing off the stone walls. They call to him (those wicked, wicked imposters), mostly violent things, but the occasional coo to join them in their father’s stomach is enough to make his pain-addled brain even heavier.
Wet, squelching tentacles wrap tightly around Thorn’s body. One slaps against his open, laughing mouth. The sabino bites down but a single squeeze of the tentacles snaps his wings against his sides. His mouth opens wide in a muffled scream. Thorn wonders if the old god is gleeful with his pain, if it is drunk on the blood of his family. He knows it must be as each of his wounds is put on display. A tentacle lifts each of his legs, then his chin, ending with flipping him over to observe the torn flesh of his underbelly.
The cold air on his open muscle burns, though Thorn cannot find the will to even wince.
It is clear what is meant to happen: become the monster’s next meal—become the monster’s next slave. Thorn laughs again when he is put ever-so-gently back on the ground. He laughs and laughs for at least a minute before opening those lilac, mirth-filled eyes to stare at the vibrating and blurred mouths.
Come home, my love.
It sounds like Wonder, silky sweet and motherly; but the colossus cannot keep its own voice from mingling, a demonic echo reverberating beneath her sweet calls. When Thorn does not come, she grows infuriated.
You don’t deserve to live anywhere else. The pit of the pit of our god’s stomach is where you belong, you vile—you disgusting—you complete waste of air and flesh.
Thorn’s heart sinks, but he does not dips his head in defeat; instead, he leans into the blood still oozing from his body. He leans into the delirium and grins up at the needle teeth.
“Anything for you, mother!”
Then he prances up an outstretched tongue and into the monster’s jaws.
Thorn floats in darkness for what might be eternity. The initial shutting of the fallen star’s jaws did not come with teeth—no, he was simply enveloped in hot breath and a rotting smell.
But those hundreds of mouths are meant for pain. They’re meant for what is left of shredded souls. And Thorn feels that might when the teeth finally enter his malleable skin. He only gasps at first, but then the jaws start working that gasp is followed by a piercing screech.
The screams fall on deaf ears (or no ears), a new one tearing his throat up as the mouth takes its time ripping him apart. First he falls to the right side, two legs rended effortlessly from his body; then the tongue rolls him to the middle where the first few inches of his nose fall upon a wayward fang. The monster seems to delight in this, jerking its jaw just enough so that it tears Thorn’s face completely open. Blood pools on the creature’s taste buds and he knows it must be delighted by the flavor, delighted by the death of the flesh of one that is not its creation.
Thorn is shoved to the side, where half of his body is bit in half over the stomach. He screams and sobs and attempts to curse words through his shredded mouth—the last bit of his brain fighting desperately to understand what is happening to him—
And then, very suddenly, he dies.
A trail of blood is illuminated by the crimson fungi that leads to the colossus. The blood loss leaves Thorn nearly delusional so a choked laugh escapes his mouth at the thought of following his own blood back to safety. Because that is how it would work, right? he thinks. The blood would take me back to the chamber, and surely that’s a better fate than here. Here being in front of the distorted parent of all of his nightmares. Thorn knows on instinct what this monster is supposed to mean to him:
An ending.
He, the father, and me, the mother, the blood-covered sabino thinks deliriously. All of my hateful loved ones our children. Bile rises violently up his throat, so quickly that it spews from his mouth, yellow and just as warped as the rest of his surroundings.
“Please don’t leave me,” Thorn manages to moan as his family prances to the open mouths of the star. Even now, beneath the weight of his convictions and their hatred, he is too weak to let them leave without pleading. “Please, no,” he sobs, falling to his knees and cracking torn flesh and bone against the stone. But the creature chews them all, a separate mouth for each eager duplicate, and all Thorn can do is wallow in the noise of their demise.
The worst part is the joyous death, the way they do not cry out in pain—
the worst part is the joyous death—
(We’ve returned to you, oh loving father.)
—the way they do not cry out in pain.
Thorn’s maddened laughter peals across the monster’s bedchamber. He laughs loud and hearty, boyish noise echoing off the stone walls. They call to him (those wicked, wicked imposters), mostly violent things, but the occasional coo to join them in their father’s stomach is enough to make his pain-addled brain even heavier.
Wet, squelching tentacles wrap tightly around Thorn’s body. One slaps against his open, laughing mouth. The sabino bites down but a single squeeze of the tentacles snaps his wings against his sides. His mouth opens wide in a muffled scream. Thorn wonders if the old god is gleeful with his pain, if it is drunk on the blood of his family. He knows it must be as each of his wounds is put on display. A tentacle lifts each of his legs, then his chin, ending with flipping him over to observe the torn flesh of his underbelly.
The cold air on his open muscle burns, though Thorn cannot find the will to even wince.
It is clear what is meant to happen: become the monster’s next meal—become the monster’s next slave. Thorn laughs again when he is put ever-so-gently back on the ground. He laughs and laughs for at least a minute before opening those lilac, mirth-filled eyes to stare at the vibrating and blurred mouths.
Come home, my love.
It sounds like Wonder, silky sweet and motherly; but the colossus cannot keep its own voice from mingling, a demonic echo reverberating beneath her sweet calls. When Thorn does not come, she grows infuriated.
You don’t deserve to live anywhere else. The pit of the pit of our god’s stomach is where you belong, you vile—you disgusting—you complete waste of air and flesh.
Thorn’s heart sinks, but he does not dips his head in defeat; instead, he leans into the blood still oozing from his body. He leans into the delirium and grins up at the needle teeth.
“Anything for you, mother!”
Then he prances up an outstretched tongue and into the monster’s jaws.
—
Thorn floats in darkness for what might be eternity. The initial shutting of the fallen star’s jaws did not come with teeth—no, he was simply enveloped in hot breath and a rotting smell.
But those hundreds of mouths are meant for pain. They’re meant for what is left of shredded souls. And Thorn feels that might when the teeth finally enter his malleable skin. He only gasps at first, but then the jaws start working that gasp is followed by a piercing screech.
The screams fall on deaf ears (or no ears), a new one tearing his throat up as the mouth takes its time ripping him apart. First he falls to the right side, two legs rended effortlessly from his body; then the tongue rolls him to the middle where the first few inches of his nose fall upon a wayward fang. The monster seems to delight in this, jerking its jaw just enough so that it tears Thorn’s face completely open. Blood pools on the creature’s taste buds and he knows it must be delighted by the flavor, delighted by the death of the flesh of one that is not its creation.
Thorn is shoved to the side, where half of his body is bit in half over the stomach. He screams and sobs and attempts to curse words through his shredded mouth—the last bit of his brain fighting desperately to understand what is happening to him—
And then, very suddenly, he dies.