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Entry tags:
RWG Drabble
Prompt: New
Word Count: 572
His back itched and burned, a feeling that made him tense and set his teeth on edge and had him snapping out at the very few individuals who could be bothered enough to ask him what was wrong. At least, there in the outermost regions of Hell where the landscape eased and slowly began to bleed into the blandness of purgatory and the shimmery silver fog that marked the Fae territory, he had trees. Strange dark trees with trunks twisted worse than a spina bifida baby or an arthritic old witch and topped with leaves so green they were closer to black; at least these were mostly still. Farther in the foliage was constantly shifting and writhing and strange sounds could be heard that had nothing to do with the hot, sulfuric wind that tangled through the grim forest. Bones littered the ground there and only the fanged feral rodents that looked more like rats than squirrels would touch the trees with impunity.
There in the borderlands the trees weren’t carnivorous, merely menacingly curious, and he could walk among them as long as he was cautious. He didn’t feel particularly careful, not with the sensation of something scraping over his flesh and a disturbing feeling like maggots eating through the muscles beneath his skin driving him out of his mind. Somewhere back on the barren plain that stretched between his current home and the woods he had dropped his shirt, unable to stand the scrape of the fabric. All he wanted was relief and the coarse bark became all-consuming in his thoughts.
If he’d been able to see himself, he’d have instantly noticed the black whorls darkening and thickening, spreading swiftly over the broad expanse of his back. What had started out smaller than one of those pin heads the angels were said to dance up was now comparatively enormous and still growing. Almost like a living tattoo, the inky pattern swept over his shoulder blades and carved midnight trails along the length of his spine. He cursed, felt reason slipping away as he tried to claw at his skin. It was useless, he couldn’t quite reach, and only the promise of the trees kept him from dropping on the ground and thrashing like a dying fish.
The first touch was like what he imagined heaven to be, all sweet bliss and the satisfaction of feeding a need. He rubbed up against the tree, scratching and scraping, practically rutting, and the first prickle of pain and tickle of blood seeping down his back only made him increase his frantic solo dance. Dusky skin caught and tore, shredded like the slow rasp of sandpaper, and he pressed in harder, wearing away the maddening itch and unknowingly taking the swirling marks with it. He was raw and bloody by the time he finally felt better, dropping to his knees relieved and tired.
Head bowed as he caught his breath, the wave of agony caught him entirely unprepared and he shouted, a raspy, throaty scream, and collapsed onto the ground. Fingers scrabbled, pulled at thin, saw-toothed grass and dug into the rough soil, filled the crevices beneath his short claws. He panted and moaned and nearly howled before blessed unconsciousness took him away. The trees, unmoving though they were, still had awareness and they were the only witness to his transformation. Later, aching and exhausted, he woke up to find he had become something new.
Word Count: 572
His back itched and burned, a feeling that made him tense and set his teeth on edge and had him snapping out at the very few individuals who could be bothered enough to ask him what was wrong. At least, there in the outermost regions of Hell where the landscape eased and slowly began to bleed into the blandness of purgatory and the shimmery silver fog that marked the Fae territory, he had trees. Strange dark trees with trunks twisted worse than a spina bifida baby or an arthritic old witch and topped with leaves so green they were closer to black; at least these were mostly still. Farther in the foliage was constantly shifting and writhing and strange sounds could be heard that had nothing to do with the hot, sulfuric wind that tangled through the grim forest. Bones littered the ground there and only the fanged feral rodents that looked more like rats than squirrels would touch the trees with impunity.
There in the borderlands the trees weren’t carnivorous, merely menacingly curious, and he could walk among them as long as he was cautious. He didn’t feel particularly careful, not with the sensation of something scraping over his flesh and a disturbing feeling like maggots eating through the muscles beneath his skin driving him out of his mind. Somewhere back on the barren plain that stretched between his current home and the woods he had dropped his shirt, unable to stand the scrape of the fabric. All he wanted was relief and the coarse bark became all-consuming in his thoughts.
If he’d been able to see himself, he’d have instantly noticed the black whorls darkening and thickening, spreading swiftly over the broad expanse of his back. What had started out smaller than one of those pin heads the angels were said to dance up was now comparatively enormous and still growing. Almost like a living tattoo, the inky pattern swept over his shoulder blades and carved midnight trails along the length of his spine. He cursed, felt reason slipping away as he tried to claw at his skin. It was useless, he couldn’t quite reach, and only the promise of the trees kept him from dropping on the ground and thrashing like a dying fish.
The first touch was like what he imagined heaven to be, all sweet bliss and the satisfaction of feeding a need. He rubbed up against the tree, scratching and scraping, practically rutting, and the first prickle of pain and tickle of blood seeping down his back only made him increase his frantic solo dance. Dusky skin caught and tore, shredded like the slow rasp of sandpaper, and he pressed in harder, wearing away the maddening itch and unknowingly taking the swirling marks with it. He was raw and bloody by the time he finally felt better, dropping to his knees relieved and tired.
Head bowed as he caught his breath, the wave of agony caught him entirely unprepared and he shouted, a raspy, throaty scream, and collapsed onto the ground. Fingers scrabbled, pulled at thin, saw-toothed grass and dug into the rough soil, filled the crevices beneath his short claws. He panted and moaned and nearly howled before blessed unconsciousness took him away. The trees, unmoving though they were, still had awareness and they were the only witness to his transformation. Later, aching and exhausted, he woke up to find he had become something new.