Ahead, to His Hand

The ache inflated slowly, pressing the blood instead of pumping it into swelling gray matter. Flaring and spreading it’s source as a Tesla-coil does, the nodes and nerves rolled and jerked inside the flesh supporting them until there were no other sensations to be held but alertness and suffering.

One too many nights spent cast out across a stone floor wore thin on his skin, his bones and his heart-like flesh that pumped and quivered black and blue in the cavernous stone that was home, bed and tomb all at once.

This was not new, so there was no wetness to his face save the perspiration from unrest and the murk of the unyielding sponge concrete clasping tight to all the wet and the rotten drippings it could suck out of it’s own dead stomach.

As the hours slid on and the pain began to recede back to his mind’s caverns, the man stood and was presented in the dimmest of living light cast across the walls of the earth’s unyielding organ, yet the syrupy iron rust that poured from the jut of his hauntingly pale fist showed intention to make it yield.

Placing a quivering paw against the smoothest spot an arming his blasphemous pick at the right angle for force he screamed a ferocity that wailed around and swirled inside him with the echoes of the pit as to give him a manic courage so violent and raw that he could ram the blunt, meaty stick into a lightly crumbling dent mottled with that rusty iron syrup but dry and clear in his eyes as the loss of his own life.

For each crack he bellowed and blared and roared louder and longer, drowning out the fear and madness that would befall him if the cracking sound revealed itself to not be the dent, going on for hours until exhaustion, days until malnutrition and weeks into starvation until the jut of the knuckle was no more that a jut of the arm.

And then, when his strength knew defeat and all was swept up in a vacuous dead void, so too was his arm as it breached the point. Prying and plying for the sweet air that could only be where his arm had gone before him he cast out rubble and skin until his head could stick in and at that moment he had lead his head to where his arm had already gone, and the inky black void was silent, and still, and dead.

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