THE GUEST FIN

Ending?

You sit at the table of life. A feast laid out. Fit for a ruler. For a conqueror. For a great devourer. All the place settings, perfectly laid. All the chairs, perfectly spaced. There is a blackened chair there. It sits taunting you, all flameless, and without smoke. Holding a blistering, bleeding, echoing silence. It slices at you, the smooth, schick, schick, schick, of a freshly sharpened knife. The lacerations, bitter sweet machinations, or merely acutely weaponized self sabotage? Wait. Wait. Wait. Who is holding the knife? Your hands are burnt and sticky. The sap is metallic. Salty. Red. You dance in the thunderstorm. Lightning strikes and echoes to past, to present, to futures yet unclaimed. An unexpected guest, sits, shadowed silhouette, at your table of burnt offerings. You can’t recall the words they spoke, but you know the shape their lips made. 

I will hurt you.

You are nothing, but a gleeful massacre. An untamed masochistic necromancer. Raising the dancing dead. 

FIN