Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. - 2 Corinthians 4:16
I sunk further downwards, In that moment I realized my Mother had made a mistake laying me here.
What a treacherous place to leave me. In the corpse of a man who was now being buried underground. Violins screeched overhead, the string quartet broke the rhythm and an awkward silence ensued. Sniffling adults above me went quiet as the man, which was to be my host was lowered delicately into the soft ground.
A priest speaking, I knew the chant well as all my brethren could sing it, passed down through the memories of the dead. “Our father…” I hummed the rest through my mouth, devoid of teeth. A small expanse of viscous seeming white. God was my father too, made in my image and not the image of man. I do not take life nor give life, I only exist to feast. Just as God in Heaven does, but I feast upon flesh and he feasts upon sorrow. So we are connected as my kind were made to herald the dead to him.
The string quartet starts playing again and the dirt begins to fall on my coffin. The last nail had went in a long time before, now it was the dirt that was heralding the end of my line. I would never grow black and spread my wings, I would be trapped here with my brother and sisters to feast until there was no more. Then wither up inside ourselves and die too, like this man.
His face had been heavily reconstructed, I could almost taste the cold plastic as I buried myself beneath his eye-socket. His death had not been pleasant, therefore his brain would be rich. I would sample the fear in his final moments.
If his family saw me now, I’m sure they’d harm me but I am a simple creature and their loved one has been handed by God down to me. If they truly loved God, they would love my kind too.
I sunk further downwards, In that moment I realized my Mother had made a mistake laying me here.
What a treacherous place to leave me. In the corpse of a man who was now being buried underground. Violins screeched overhead, the string quartet broke the rhythm and an awkward silence ensued. Sniffling adults above me went quiet as the man, which was to be my host was lowered delicately into the soft ground.
A priest speaking, I knew the chant well as all my brethren could sing it, passed down through the memories of the dead. “Our father…” I hummed the rest through my mouth, devoid of teeth. A small expanse of viscous seeming white. God was my father too, made in my image and not the image of man. I do not take life nor give life, I only exist to feast. Just as God in Heaven does, but I feast upon flesh and he feasts upon sorrow. So we are connected as my kind were made to herald the dead to him.
The string quartet starts playing again and the dirt begins to fall on my coffin. The last nail had went in a long time before, now it was the dirt that was heralding the end of my line. I would never grow black and spread my wings, I would be trapped here with my brother and sisters to feast until there was no more. Then wither up inside ourselves and die too, like this man.
His face had been heavily reconstructed, I could almost taste the cold plastic as I buried myself beneath his eye-socket. His death had not been pleasant, therefore his brain would be rich. I would sample the fear in his final moments.
If his family saw me now, I’m sure they’d harm me but I am a simple creature and their loved one has been handed by God down to me. If they truly loved God, they would love my kind too.
