Post by Emile Avaant on Sept 7, 2012 13:47:58 GMT -5
If one had good enough eyes at this time of night, they might see a thin smear of red leading off one of the many trails that crisscrossed the park. If they knew what they where looking for, they might see signs of a struggle. Broken foliage, perhaps the discarded knife that lay under one of the bushes. If they followed the trail off the track, the blood would get thicker. It would scatter, become more violent as though someone had splashed the trees and earth with the stuff. They might even see tracks that look like a large dog.
Or a wolf.
If they went even deeper, followed the blood, they might see a heap of earth that had been hastily covered over. Like one might see if their dog buried a bone. The few flies that buzzed around the mound would tell it was definitely not a bone under that earth. If one removed the earth, they might see what would happen if a man went through a blender - though really, why would you want to see that?
And if they looked around, they might notice a small hole that sloped down into the twisted roots of a massive oak tree. It looked as though it had been dug by hand - and sure enough, if one peered into the small den they'd see a figure whom looked no older than twelve years old, naked as the day he was born. Though the face would be covered by black, curly hair, they'd be able to catch the red that was smeared from lips, down across the small chest and over the distended stomach - like a fat person whom had eaten the entire buffet table. Yet the boy was obviously content; he was fast asleep, silent, obviously far away. In a dream, perhaps.
Emile didn't know why he'd killed the man. Well, he did. Because he was hungry, because the man had been pointing a knife at him and saying things to him that he didn't understand. And then he'd smelled so good and Emile just wanted to feel the rush again. Even though it hurt so bad that he'd screamed in pain, he grew big and strong and killed the man. And then he'd eaten him, eaten almost all of him. When he'd changed back - panting, coming down from the beautiful high that felt so good - he'd wondered why he felt no guilt. Even as he buried the pieces he had left, and then dug himself a place to sleep, he felt almost nothing. He thought he should - he'd killed someone. Ate them. But he didn't. The thing in his head kept him safe, kept him from being hungry. And it felt better than anything he'd experienced... why was it so bad?
He'd wondered that even as he'd crawled into his makeshift home, utterly naked and exhausted, and closed his eyes. The sun had still been just in the sky then - not that Emile knew what time it was now, as he was asleep, but it was past midnight.
Or a wolf.
If they went even deeper, followed the blood, they might see a heap of earth that had been hastily covered over. Like one might see if their dog buried a bone. The few flies that buzzed around the mound would tell it was definitely not a bone under that earth. If one removed the earth, they might see what would happen if a man went through a blender - though really, why would you want to see that?
And if they looked around, they might notice a small hole that sloped down into the twisted roots of a massive oak tree. It looked as though it had been dug by hand - and sure enough, if one peered into the small den they'd see a figure whom looked no older than twelve years old, naked as the day he was born. Though the face would be covered by black, curly hair, they'd be able to catch the red that was smeared from lips, down across the small chest and over the distended stomach - like a fat person whom had eaten the entire buffet table. Yet the boy was obviously content; he was fast asleep, silent, obviously far away. In a dream, perhaps.
Emile didn't know why he'd killed the man. Well, he did. Because he was hungry, because the man had been pointing a knife at him and saying things to him that he didn't understand. And then he'd smelled so good and Emile just wanted to feel the rush again. Even though it hurt so bad that he'd screamed in pain, he grew big and strong and killed the man. And then he'd eaten him, eaten almost all of him. When he'd changed back - panting, coming down from the beautiful high that felt so good - he'd wondered why he felt no guilt. Even as he buried the pieces he had left, and then dug himself a place to sleep, he felt almost nothing. He thought he should - he'd killed someone. Ate them. But he didn't. The thing in his head kept him safe, kept him from being hungry. And it felt better than anything he'd experienced... why was it so bad?
He'd wondered that even as he'd crawled into his makeshift home, utterly naked and exhausted, and closed his eyes. The sun had still been just in the sky then - not that Emile knew what time it was now, as he was asleep, but it was past midnight.
