Withering
Every villain has an origin story.
I lay still. Motionless. My skin is stretched over bone. Muscles have become thin as paper. My body is decaying under the light of a pale moon. My eyes, which were once full of life, now fade to gray and flicker with a dimming glow. I watch in awe as I fade into a void touched by despair and longing. A hunger welling up within me. Thirst scratching rabid at my throat. I claw loose dirt and solid rock as I try to dig my way from the shallow grave.
What has become of me? Have I falling that far? The fire I once had burning in my chest has fizzled out into a small flame that dances in a rotted breeze and dwindles away. No heat burst from my body. No life is spilling from my veins. Instead, I embrace the ever crawling dance of worms, beetles, and all sorts of dark earth dwelling beasts.
The screams of carrion birds echo in my ears. Ravens perch on the exposed crown atop my head and peel rancid flesh from my face. I can do nothing but watch as they devour what was left of me. I eye them, beg for a mercy that no longer awaits me, and ask why? They reply with cold stares and the clicking of hooked beaks. They care not for my release but relish in my suffering.
To have walked through fire and grow as a creature of rebirth to now lying in a unsanctified dirt, waiting patiently for a death that would never come. Is this what it means to be in hell. To reside with the damned and to long for hope where all is lost. The words above my head, carved in the rugged stone, read “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
So I lay in a pit of my own despair harkening the day that I once shared in the light of those around me. The light I once emitted from my own person. I dread the days and the nights, I morn the loss of the possibility of fruitfulness. Eager dreams encaptured by a seething darkness that withstands the iridescent light illuminated above me.
Alas, though I am engulfed by darkness and succumb to its will, I find solace in the blackness. A peace that I have come to realize as resurrection. Although I am WITHERING, it is not due to a life I lost, but a life I aim to have. The husk that I am is the remains of a body shrouded in phoenix flame. It is the leftovers of a body who thrived in darkness and melancholy orchestras.
I am starving!
A body. A person.
Carnal. Passionate. Lust. Love. Attention. Care.
So I lay here. I wait for the time to emerge from the ground a corpse with a hunger for MET NEEDS. Needs that should be molded and matched. A body that was once full of life now lifeless, shambling, hungry.
I have changed in my metamorphosis. Where I once valued feelings, I only see needs. Where I once valued dedication, I only see needs. Unearthing from my muddy tomb I crawl free. A version of the man who died only to be reborn again. They say that every villain has an origin story, it just so happens you are mine. Though I was WITHERING, I am now a product of cremation and sacrifice. The villain I am becoming is one of many faces. Faces that I recognize as familiar. Faces that I now call my own.
