Pulled Molars

Blog of current wish-he-were, will-soon-be author, Boyd A. Harrod.

The Credoroium Part Two: Sequeloroium.

I tumbled backwards, coming to sit side-saddle on the dusty, brick floor that had gone a thousand years undisturbed, causing a surprising pillow of soot and sand to pout out from beneath my thinned, feather-weight frame. Looking down to see my legs, my pants strung about my ankles after they’d loosened and fell during the time I was fixed to the Credoroium, I could see how frighteningly gaunt they were. It was as though I had not been fed nor exercised in a decade and it felt likewise, the surprising carry-on weight of my head pulling me forward, resisting my body’s urge to slump back in the opposite direction in a desperate bid to die.

Hudson wouldn’t let that happen, and neither would I. I struggled to keep my eyes open, to fixate them anywhere around the tomb, now a-glow with orange, the embers accelerating around me faster and faster. Concentrating on anything moving or otherwise proved impossible, so I started small and tried to invoke an image of what I must’ve looked like – to scare me, to summon that want to stand and work out a way to reverse the curse, and, all-forbidding, not to convince myself of defeat, or fall to rest and never wake, which I felt would soon be the case.

In my mind, gaunt was a matter of fact. I saw my eyes, the space around them bruised dark, outlining the skeletal cavity in which they are set. The light from the ember-like fire that spins around me, pacing audibly fast, slightly revealing the contours of eye-balls behind my closed lids, but nether-the-less,their darkened state making my head look much more like an empty, sovereign skull than one with skin or muscle stretched over to conceal its unsightly macabre. Taking in to account that I could feel my lips cracking, and that I had not been able to shut my jaw, I envisioned my teeth as yellow to keep with the exaggerated image I’d created. I imagined my hair thinning and falling out. It all came together as horror. There was no certainty to any of this, of course, but the thought was successful in waking me, and, thoroughly disturbed by myself, I’d found that desire to fight.

As I pushed off the ground my wrist suffered a severe fracture. I hadn’t felt it, at least, I was not pained by it, but I knew it had happened. Once I was erected, I glanced at it to see the bone had broken through my paper skin.


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