======Remains======

[CW: eye gore, insect larvae, cannibalism?, extreme gore, force feeding] \\

You look through the shiny glass panes of the protective goggles, some of the equipment you wear is its intended function, others are repurposed, given new life; you can feel your own eyes staring back at you as you carefully bag up the body. Every. Last Piece. That is your job; You pick up the scraps that remain from a pool of congealed blood, gelatinous, gelatinous and round, the faded iris looks back at you as you hold the optical nerve between your fingers, why are they so familiar? You retreat back into the labyrinth of your mind, picking and probing at the reason for your discomfort, until, //pop//, grey liquid covers your already bloodstained gloves. Lovely. \\ 

Your breath is heavy as it condensates on the inside of the glass. You leave the Bastion. \\ 

Everything is fine, this is exactly what is expected of you. No-one is looking sideways, peering at you with a scowl, no-one whispers to their neighbour. No-one. \\

 Is it the shovel? Are people just that trusting or careless? You don’t see Colby anywhere. Can he see you? The world is so full of risk, so you hedge your bets on the safer option; close enough to the Bastion to prevent suspicion, far enough from the Bastion to prevent suspicion, you find the optimal place to begin digging. The moss and ivy on the ground make it difficult to begin, but the rhythm of work finds you soon enough, hours pass by and the pit you find yourself stood in is not deep enough to cover her convincingly; but, you realise, it might be enough to make people **believe** she is in there. Who’s to know a grave is empty by sight alone? \\

You assert to yourself that if someone **were** watching you, they would be long gone or long spotted, so you take off, to deliver your gift to its intended recipient. \\

Small blue flowers are tinted purple as you set the blood-leaking bag down on the ground. For how long had it been dripping blood? No matter. No Matter. The world is full of unknown blood paths, no-one will think twice about it right? \\

Like a chef preparing his art, you sift through the inhomogeneous blob of viscera formerly called Lottie; only the best for your dearest, naturally. You pick out the chunks that seem… freshest… more appropriate for a lady than a pulsating mass of maggots. The best meat seems to be from her torso, it’s strange, her skin has degraded to a putrid palette, but just below the surface, the muscles are… clean, unchanged, almost human. \\

As you examine the meat, something small falls out of her pocket, catching the light of the sun for just a moment; a ring, two, in fact, silvered and polished and inlaid with bright red crystals, or perhaps that is just the blood, the suit makes it hard to tell. ‘Ah, a pity.’ You think, the apathy less like a wall than a chain fence. The muscles on your banded finger twitch as you feel it jolt ever so slightly towards the pit, like an invisible thread, binding you, always.  \\

You pocket the rings, they might come in useful later, you think. Lottie’s other pocket reveals a rather unintelligible note left to Eddy, titled ‘Schematics’. It is a sketchy mess of circuits and diagrams and nigh-illegible writing, though you think it might be to do with the communications tower, but all you can really make out is the phrase “It’ll work this time, promise.” followed by a scrawled smiley face. 

Turning your attention to more important matters, you lower the meat; down, down, down, into the pit. A healthy variety of organs, essential for any <del>carnivore</del> human, her long, spider-silk like black hair almost moves before she does as like an old machine brought to life by a spark, she feels for the offering.  Her hands are bathed in sanguinity. \\

And then she lets go. \\ 

And falls still again, the power running out. \\

Well that isn’t right. How could she reject this feast you worked so hard to give her. No. This isn’t right at all. \\ 

//A woman lies on a bed, swaddled in blankets, cheeks rosy and dimpled as she smiles after being fed a spoon of something warm and comforting, she lets out a sneeze that merges into a chuckle, ‘You don’t have to take care of me like this, darling’, the scene grows muffled as you fail to remember what you said to her, there was no end to things you could have said.//

With Glass Panes, and gloves, and suit, and everything else; this might be your only opportunity to get close to her, to touch her, to hold her like you once used to, that is, until she gets better of course. \\

From your vantage point high above, you safely restrain her; your darling resists your control, initially, uncareful to prevent bruises or burns, but eventually, she settles. You descend to meet her, you stand, face to face, almost, with your love; tucking strands of ebony hair behind her ear, what remains of it,  you notice some come away with your hand and fall to the floor, gentle as snowflakes. The patch of scalp left behind teems with vile, wriggling larvae, you gently pick them off. \\

She stares not at you as you lift the blood-filled organ to her mouth and beckon her to ‘eat, darling, for me’ there is a pleading in your voice. She does not heed it, un-swallowed blood drips from her hanging jaw. \\

You tilt her head up her yellowed and pale corneas are within view, if nothing else, maybe gravity itself will help you. Still, nothing. \\

Only when you have resolved yourself to doing whatever it takes to keep her alive, to feed her Lottie  cell by cell if you have to, your hands shake as you try force the piece down, down, down, ‘eat, my love, eat’ something finally takes hold in her, jaw clamping down, and your fear of her starving assuages. \\ 

Something lingers in your mind? Was it the movement? The warmth? You? What was the trigger? What is the spark keeping her alive?


{[]}{{tag>writeup3 gm_izzy complete}}