Aftermath

A/N: Don't ask me who or what this is. I don't know who this is or what it's about. All I can say is I was in a quietly dark mood. There are millions of possibilities. I just started typing this out one day. I could express my own opinion on it, but my subconscious disagrees, and naming any names would only trap your mind. I'd rather let you decide the symbolism for yourself.

If you think you've figured it out (and there is no wrong answer) I'd love to hear from you.

Materialization. Painful. Shooting, writhing pain. Wrapping around his spine, coiling, crunching tightly. His bones were suddenly real, like they had popped back in place after some mangling accident. The lack of injury was painful. Blazing, stinging wounds surfacing his body.

He now knew that all he was merely some mewling piece of flesh. A body of blood and bone currently wrapped in torn, bleeding flesh. Weak. Pathetic. Not much above human life, perhaps even lower with the filth. He was without meaning, only to exist, suffer, and ultimately die.

Satisfaction. He was a toy, a plaything for the amusement of others. He could take their punishment, shape it, make it come alive with movement, color, sound. He was where their pain and rage clashed. They could pour it all out on him, abuse him, make him cry, make him bleed, break him.

A painful cough and a slug of bloody phlegm cleared from his throat. It stuck to his lips, dribbled on his chin, leaving stains. More blood. Nothing now. It was just another addition of color. He shifted, crying out again when his raw back protested. Sound. His hands stung, pressing with all of his weight against the hard floor. Muscles trembled as he tried to push himself up. Movement. He let himself slip for now. All was quiet, calm. There was nothing scorching, no hands reaching out to torture him. Maybe they were letting him sleep for now. Just for a moment, even. He thought vaguely that he might die if given a single moment to let himself relax.

Breathing was too hard. He let the unnecessary function cease, even though his wounds made him want to pant like a dog. He was a dog now. They were letting their dog rest, wait for a fresh moment to kick him again. Thinking was an unnecessary function, almost a luxury. He let the function cease.

The floor felt slippery now. The blood was almost a comfort. And the warmth…

He laid down in the warmth, letting it soak into his bones and take away his tension. Solace. Exhaustion swept over him. Weakly curled his nailless hands in the natural effort to protect himself. Let the sleep tickle his eyes closed, slipped into the welcoming oblivion as the darkness won over.