Man, I have weird friends. The good kind of weird. Also the crazy kind of weird. Sabra Schirm here will tell you all about crazy things! Follow her on Twitter at @cue_face_palm!
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The sound of rending roots in the forest was loud, sudden. John froze, his hands trembling, as the wild flowers gave a terrible shriek in his grasp, writing in agony, before going deathly limp. Thick, tacky blood dripped from their torn stems, their warm, supple flesh growing cold as the blood dripped between his fingers. John tried to drop the flowers, but the blood, thick as sap, glued his fist in its damning grip around the wilted flowers.
A trembling moan rattled his chest, loud in the heavy darkness. A bone-rattling shriek echoed back at him. John bolted, tripping over roots and swiping at branches that clawed at his face. Sweat dripped down his face, streaking blood and dirt, blinding him as it dripped from his lashed into his eyes. His lungs seized in panic as his legs trembled beneath him. He couldn’t stop, not ever, less he meet the voice of the dark. Gasping for breath, he fell to his knees, silt and blood trailing slowly down his nose and clinging to his neck.
A rustle and crackle of dead leaves in the stillness. Slowly, John looked up and froze. There, surrounded by a dark snarl of bramble, was a rose. His fingers still heavy with the blood of the wild flowers, he hesitated. He knew he should not, but he could not resist. Slowly, he reached through the tangle of thorns and brushed the flower’s petals with his bloody fingertips. The snarl of thorns seemed to clutch at his arm, biting into his skin as the petals warmed under his touch. John yanked at his arm, wincing as the thorns dug deeper, spattering the roots of the brush in dark blood. The brush writhed, tightening its hold as thorns burrowing into flesh.
“Wh-what? No…”
John’s voice hung heavily in the darkness and he tugged harder, using both hands to shove the brambles away. They slithered under his touch and dug deeper, pulling him forward, into the bush. His tugged frantically, leaning away from the thorns as a snarl wrapped around his head and neck, tugging. Thorns dug into the soft flesh of his neck, puncturing his cheeks and eyes. For a moment, he could only sit, stunned, as the thick, warm fluid dripped down his cheek. John screamed, loud and brief, the wail cut short as a bramble forced its way past teeth, wrapping around his tongue and slithering down his throat. The delicate skin bulged, ripping as thorns pushed through from inside.
He quivered violently, his failing breath rattling, and then stilled. Slowly, the snarling vine curled out of the mess of his shattered rib cage, bits of John’s heart and lungs clinging to the wet vine. No sound but the rustling of the feasting bramble filled the air.
…then, silence.
