{original fiction} Chloroform Assassin
Title: Chloroform Assassin
Rating: T
Character(s): anonymous
Word Count: 191
Warnings: mentions of blood/injuries
Summary: This is a piece of a larger story that's been percolating in my head since this past summer.
- - - - -
Seeking sanctuary in the guise, the façade of recovery, you shamefully hide your new scars, your black bruises, your burning cuts beneath the shelter of snow-white bandages, soon stained crimson with a mortal dye of your own blood. Then the dirty bandages are removed, the lacerations heartily coated in antiseptic and poultice, and freshly applied bandages once again presume the appearance of normalcy and smoothly progressing recovery-and it's all a filthy lie. For beyond these comparatively superficial injuries of the flesh lurks a deeper hurt, an incurable pain, the shards of your shattered soul that threaten to burst from within you.
It hurts like the world's first sin, this gut-wrenching agony, a disease incurable and silent in its workings, the knots it tangles, the bonds it severs--a hushed, chloroform assassin. You recoil at the sight of yourself in the mirror, bloody, battered, and a hair's breadth shy of broken, the shadows beneath your eyes betraying the terrible truth of your ugly, despicable failure that stares you square in the face, unrelenting and merciless in its relished advances as it bores through the blackest hollows of your fatigue and stakes a claim over your heart.
Rating: T
Character(s): anonymous
Word Count: 191
Warnings: mentions of blood/injuries
Summary: This is a piece of a larger story that's been percolating in my head since this past summer.
- - - - -
Seeking sanctuary in the guise, the façade of recovery, you shamefully hide your new scars, your black bruises, your burning cuts beneath the shelter of snow-white bandages, soon stained crimson with a mortal dye of your own blood. Then the dirty bandages are removed, the lacerations heartily coated in antiseptic and poultice, and freshly applied bandages once again presume the appearance of normalcy and smoothly progressing recovery-and it's all a filthy lie. For beyond these comparatively superficial injuries of the flesh lurks a deeper hurt, an incurable pain, the shards of your shattered soul that threaten to burst from within you.
It hurts like the world's first sin, this gut-wrenching agony, a disease incurable and silent in its workings, the knots it tangles, the bonds it severs--a hushed, chloroform assassin. You recoil at the sight of yourself in the mirror, bloody, battered, and a hair's breadth shy of broken, the shadows beneath your eyes betraying the terrible truth of your ugly, despicable failure that stares you square in the face, unrelenting and merciless in its relished advances as it bores through the blackest hollows of your fatigue and stakes a claim over your heart.