I always feel like I have chosen the wrong body. It feels wrong. Like the skeleton inside of me is trying to escape the mortal flesh it's imprisoned in. It claws at the inside of my skin. Just under the outer layer. If you listen closely, almost too close, you can hear it screaming like the damned in Hell.
It pulls off pieces of its own bone, hoping it can make itself small enough to squeeze out. The bones are splintered like damaged tree branches. Day by day the innocent skeleton pulls itself apart bit by bit, unaware of what it's doing to itself.
Sometimes I wish I could take my hands, place them onto my skull, and squeeze it just hard enough for it to break. I want to pull the skeleton out of me to show it what it's doing to itself. Baiting it out like fish are drawn to innocent hooks floating in the water. Nothing harmful about that? Poor skeleton. It knows everything and nothing at the same time. Everything about itself. Nothing about what it's done.
I'll then pull my hands away. It wanted me to do it. Shattered bone and deep red blood on my hands while it pays its way from the confinement. It sees itself in the mirror. It says nothing but you could tell what it was going to say. What have I done to this beautiful body of mine? It looks scared, full of regret. Falling onto the floor, it clutches the limp body. Its fingers trace all of the imperfections. Marks, lines, scars. Disgusted with itself, it tries to shove itself back into the ugly, wrong, and terrible body. There's no way it'll fit. Brain matter falls onto the wooden floorboards. Wet and decomposing. I'm sorry, the skeleton whispers through shattered teeth. Disembodied and hollow sounding as if it was said through the trees.
The skeleton stares into the mirror once more. It takes a hand and slams it into it. Small shards of bone fall from it. As the bones hit the floor, they turn into ash and disappear through the floorboards. The skeleton sits in front of the rotting pile of flesh. Maggots slither along the open wounds, devouring. Days, weeks, months, years pass. Now it's just the stained carpet the body was lying upon and the skeleton. The skeletons' dreams of leaving have long been dead.
Lost soul, where have you gone? calls the Almighty. The skeleton answers not. It continues to stare at the place the body once was. The Almighty holds out their hand. The skeleton refuses. It would much rather be in its old body again. The Almighty pulls their hand back, disgusted at the resentful soul. I will put you in a body much worse than before, they scream. The skeleton nods as its bones are decaying to ash.
YOU ARE READING
Random short stories and snippets that I wrote
Science FictionThis will be a collection of all the little writings I do just because. Some of the stories will deal with darker subjects such as death and body dysmorphia. I also drew to cover art.
