The sun is gone. He no longer sits atop his cloudy perch but has been whisked away — an egg yolk reduced to foam. The froth of the sky has bubbled over the cooking pot and scolded the tiled roof of Bonefiend Castle. Mother Nature has regularly screened in anger, cursing the castle, tearing stones from its sides — leaving it half naked and vulnerable. The caretakers had managed to secure a grimy piece of tarpaulin over it, covering its exposure. It’s like putting a plaster on an arterial slash. The early morning wind raked it free and it flaps manically. Other stones topple free from their cells and crash down the side of the castle, chipping away at the others’ resolve.
The rain is heavy and burns, acidic ally searing the grounds. The grass is pockmarked and flattened; branches as wide as oil pipes lay discarded across the lawn. They ooze sticky black sap; washed away instantly.
The drainage ditches are stuffed with mushed leaves and plastic bottles; choking it until it turns murky blue with suffocation. Rain rises steadily and surely — the ditches unable to breathe. The surface is moved by the bullets which cascade from the angry rolling clouds above. It begins to spill.
A crackle of lightning. A pounding of thunder. Purple bruises swell and burst. Handfuls of brown mud and choked flowers attempt to escape and slide their way through the cracks in the basement window.
Yellow eyes watch and twitch.
An ulna with a clawed talon strung to the end reaches out. It trembles. The flashes of lightning illuminate the worn bone white. Spiderwebs embedded in the marrow spiral outwards. Flakes of bone dance to the floor like snowflakes.
The yellow eyes watch. The unnatural blizzard swirls. A wide smile, gaping in places, tears the lips. The claw stretches out to the grimy window; covered in decades worth of mould and dirt. The orderly’s gave up trying to clean it long ago. Just like the rest of the basement. No matter what industrial cleaner they used, it always creeped back, a disease unable to be shifted.
The claw scratches the grimy coat. Flecks of dirt and blood peel away. The floor is littered with debris.
A flare of white.
The yellow eyes squint. An unearthly howl erupts. The vocal chords are coarse and harsh from disuse. The wind howls with it — or rather at it. Mother Nature shrieks.
After-images have branded the retinas of the yellow eyes. A leafless tree illuminated by white light. A figure in a dark robe beneath it. With each blink, the figure glides closer. Hand outstretched. Head minutely lifting with each step. Almost. There.
The yellow eyes widen. Excitedly. Happily. Joyously. It raises in its bony claws in response, metal chains stiffly clunk. A strange snuffling, panting laugh gurgles from the depth of its chest.
A crackle of lightning. The room is illuminated. Shadows leer. The wardrobe doors hungrily slam open. The bed creaks as the thing with the yellow eyes stands. The rats squeal in fear; biting their way through the walls. Their teeth snap. Their gums bleed. And still they try to flee.
Death is here. And he is starved.
Word Count: 535
//Picture not mine. No copyright infringement intended//