...is the cruelest month.

As with all things great and small, Bylah was aware of the insects that crawled beneath him, through him. The maggots that churned at his guts, the subtle buzz of bottle-blue flies. Birds have their songs. So does he.

The world ages. He considers it, the way the seasons change. Spring begets summer, flowers of May. Before, bright were the lights that hung from his tines, little drops of water that had fallen from the sky. They were no longer clear, but muddied from the filth of him.

I want
to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.

He could have told her this, ages ago. He could have impressed her with gifts, with displays of power - for even foul, cruel things such as himself have the capability of being handsome. It is, after all, merely perception.

One's man's trash is another man's treasure, as they say.

But it was not to be - her voice had been a glorious crescendo of a scream, as high as vast mountains, their cruel points stabbing skywards. Thus, such solutions only come in one form. You eradicate your problems. You remove all obstacles that might get you found out. You start at the mouth - the tongue, to be exact. You devour it, swallow down every scream that might further come forth.

It was halfway down her ribcage, with her life's blood still slick at his teeth, coloring his saliva like a virgin's blood, that Bylah realized he had a problem to deal with.

After this, grass would never do.