Ruquayyah ♡𝜗ৎ

I lie atop the span of a fuchsia-threaded ivory pectin surface, grimacing at every knock of its pulse. It is sticky-cold porous against me; the glacé of sebum, pus, sweat, and flaked flesh.

Above dews like rainbows, zings the alacrity of people smiles. In that is a satisfaction, an evident love, the kind like you swathe up in; foams, silks, and much gaiety. 

A thread slithers the surface to locket the ankle. Now spun up, swung wild, and knotted in gleaming flaxen rapids. The fleshbed has disappeared away. I sway the bouffant — facile to just hang here, gently, the way you dangle an arm, and the hand obeys, water-like or like anything going where it’s led.

Hot and wet along my temples erects a bonnet of flames. They lap fast to engulf a skull of hair, singeing a solid thicket to lifeless patches of fine follicles, and continue to blister through flesh and cook open splits of raw pink tissue.

Looking up, I squint past sunbeams to the sharp points of two dagger blades suspended above. They plunge no warning while I gaze wide-eyed. Like ramming pencils into a watermelon, or a needle popping a water balloon, eyeballs split bloody, edges scrape bone, blades wreck through my face.

The strand loosens me to descend onto a cold and rounded surface. Hilts extrude my face, hugged by sockets of pulp, tears, blood and kohl, until I rip them free. My beclouded vision shows I rest in a wet pool of total white.

I make toward the strange circlet of baby blue in the corner, but the orb jumps fast across the white that is not pure white after all and is stained in strings of red fibers.

The circlet rests at my knee. Oddly, there is faint movement in the color.

It is when I am closer that I notice the movement in the wet blue belongs to the threatening image of an eyeless hairless creature having a very dark color. It leans forth to meet me as well.