Sheppard is bleeding out.
May 29th, 2024 09:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
okaywolfContent warning: This chapter includes descriptions of violence and gore.
Sometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
Sheppard is bleeding out. You don't know this, you weren't there for what happened, what happens next.
When he reached the salmonberry patch—one he'd pointed out as close enough to town to be safe—he didn't slow down. He barrelled into It with the full force of whatever Sheppard was.
Regardless of its crescent moon hunch presumably off center of gravity, It isn't knocked off balance. It moves back just enough to break contact with Murre, It's talon no longer tracing something on their forehead.
The full force of whatever Sheppard was, rejected by a near-immovable object, bounces. Something snaps. Like the crack of a tree bent too far in the sway of a breeze.
Murre, scrambling backwards broken from the freeze of facing It, recognizes the sound with a sick feeling in their gut.
When It moves to close the gap made between It and Murre, a Sheppard sucking air like a gasping fish snaps It's outstretched talon in his hands like a sapling. It tilts It's head, Its eyes fixed forward, Its fixed gaze fixing on Sheppard.
There's no sound when Sheppard says "not them". There is no sound. There has been no sound.
There has been no sound except for the snap.
Sheppard no sound breaks another talon, eyes locked with It's.
It's body turns to align with It's head, obliging Sheppard's demand to pay no attention to Murre. When It raises a talon to hover over Sheppard's chest— When the talon stills, finding its target— When It presses the talon forward, into Sheppard, there's no sound but the popping of the talon's point breaking through fascia and thoracic pleura. This is another sound Murre recognizes with a sick feeling in their gut.
Sheppard hurts different. Sheppard feels hurt like he needs it. Like he's suffocating without it. Hurt hurts so much that he hardly feels anything else as deep and intrinsic to hisself. Sometimes he wonders if whatever is hisself is nothing but, craves nothing but, feels nothing but pain.
Part of him leans into the touch, into the sharpened point pressing into his heart. The other part of him is breaking the talon.
Murre screams when the talon in Sheppard's chest is mercilessly replaced with six more in a motion so swift it scares the no sound out of them. Something in their vocal chords tears with what would have been a devastated wail.
This is when all too many knife limbs arrives.
All too many knife limbs—an image that joins It with many other nightmares Murre has collected—loping out of the brush on uneven and all too many limbs diverts from its intended path to Sheppard like river around a rock. The rock is It, not Sheppard.
Murre is the remainder in the equation of Sheppard's vicinity. Murre's knife is on the forest floor dropped where they had stood, next to the talon that had been tracing something on their forehead. They don't think there's anything they could do in self defense to what was a roiling every surface a sharp edge. They had seen what it had done to Sheppard.
Neither Sheppard nor Murre know why what happens next happens.
The moment It makes It's decision is marked by It moving away from It's lock on Sheppard. It's eyes follow all too many knife limbs, head turning with It's fixed gaze. Like a snake strike, a long spindly arm uncoils to spear all too many knife limbs, talons skewering it through and sinking deep into the soft dirt of decades of decomposition an arm's length from Murre.
Sheppard, prying himself backwards, without the talons holding him up by the ribcage, drops to the ground.
Where It's talons impale all too many knife limbs, layers of keratin rapidly peel and curl back to the base like a fire-starting stick carved to shavings. All too many knife limbs is twitching, then flailing.
Murre is scrambling to Sheppard. They ask him with no sound what can be done, hoping Sheppard is in their head. Murre's throat aches at the no sound yelp scared out of them when another set of talons picks up Sheppard, pulling him effortlessly from their grip.
They watch the limp Sheppard carried in a smooth slow arc to all too many knife limbs. They watch yet another set of talons articulating from yet another long spindly arm ease open Sheppard's jaw. They hear the crack of cervical vertebrae as Sheppard is forced to break teeth on all too many knife limbs until all too many knife limbs stops flailing, then stops twitching.
The peeling stops. It pulls It's talons out of the ground and the body of all too many knife limbs, now no thicker than pine needles where they had reacted from contact with all too many knife limbs' insides. At the same time, It pries Sheppard's jaw away from the enforced bite—another sound Murre recognizes—and, just as indifferent, replaces Sheppard into Murre's arms.
Already assessing Sheppard's condition, Murre doesn't see the apologetic stoop of It's hunch as It leaves.
Sometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
Sheppard is bleeding out. You don't know this, you weren't there for what happened, what happens next.
When he reached the salmonberry patch—one he'd pointed out as close enough to town to be safe—he didn't slow down. He barrelled into It with the full force of whatever Sheppard was.
Regardless of its crescent moon hunch presumably off center of gravity, It isn't knocked off balance. It moves back just enough to break contact with Murre, It's talon no longer tracing something on their forehead.
The full force of whatever Sheppard was, rejected by a near-immovable object, bounces. Something snaps. Like the crack of a tree bent too far in the sway of a breeze.
Murre, scrambling backwards broken from the freeze of facing It, recognizes the sound with a sick feeling in their gut.
When It moves to close the gap made between It and Murre, a Sheppard sucking air like a gasping fish snaps It's outstretched talon in his hands like a sapling. It tilts It's head, Its eyes fixed forward, Its fixed gaze fixing on Sheppard.
There's no sound when Sheppard says "not them". There is no sound. There has been no sound.
There has been no sound except for the snap.
Sheppard no sound breaks another talon, eyes locked with It's.
It's body turns to align with It's head, obliging Sheppard's demand to pay no attention to Murre. When It raises a talon to hover over Sheppard's chest— When the talon stills, finding its target— When It presses the talon forward, into Sheppard, there's no sound but the popping of the talon's point breaking through fascia and thoracic pleura. This is another sound Murre recognizes with a sick feeling in their gut.
Sheppard hurts different. Sheppard feels hurt like he needs it. Like he's suffocating without it. Hurt hurts so much that he hardly feels anything else as deep and intrinsic to hisself. Sometimes he wonders if whatever is hisself is nothing but, craves nothing but, feels nothing but pain.
Part of him leans into the touch, into the sharpened point pressing into his heart. The other part of him is breaking the talon.
Murre screams when the talon in Sheppard's chest is mercilessly replaced with six more in a motion so swift it scares the no sound out of them. Something in their vocal chords tears with what would have been a devastated wail.
This is when all too many knife limbs arrives.
All too many knife limbs—an image that joins It with many other nightmares Murre has collected—loping out of the brush on uneven and all too many limbs diverts from its intended path to Sheppard like river around a rock. The rock is It, not Sheppard.
Murre is the remainder in the equation of Sheppard's vicinity. Murre's knife is on the forest floor dropped where they had stood, next to the talon that had been tracing something on their forehead. They don't think there's anything they could do in self defense to what was a roiling every surface a sharp edge. They had seen what it had done to Sheppard.
Neither Sheppard nor Murre know why what happens next happens.
The moment It makes It's decision is marked by It moving away from It's lock on Sheppard. It's eyes follow all too many knife limbs, head turning with It's fixed gaze. Like a snake strike, a long spindly arm uncoils to spear all too many knife limbs, talons skewering it through and sinking deep into the soft dirt of decades of decomposition an arm's length from Murre.
Sheppard, prying himself backwards, without the talons holding him up by the ribcage, drops to the ground.
Where It's talons impale all too many knife limbs, layers of keratin rapidly peel and curl back to the base like a fire-starting stick carved to shavings. All too many knife limbs is twitching, then flailing.
Murre is scrambling to Sheppard. They ask him with no sound what can be done, hoping Sheppard is in their head. Murre's throat aches at the no sound yelp scared out of them when another set of talons picks up Sheppard, pulling him effortlessly from their grip.
They watch the limp Sheppard carried in a smooth slow arc to all too many knife limbs. They watch yet another set of talons articulating from yet another long spindly arm ease open Sheppard's jaw. They hear the crack of cervical vertebrae as Sheppard is forced to break teeth on all too many knife limbs until all too many knife limbs stops flailing, then stops twitching.
The peeling stops. It pulls It's talons out of the ground and the body of all too many knife limbs, now no thicker than pine needles where they had reacted from contact with all too many knife limbs' insides. At the same time, It pries Sheppard's jaw away from the enforced bite—another sound Murre recognizes—and, just as indifferent, replaces Sheppard into Murre's arms.
Already assessing Sheppard's condition, Murre doesn't see the apologetic stoop of It's hunch as It leaves.
