It’s the tearing. You think cuts hurt, but you’re wrong. Cuts sting. They itch almost. They are a clean, neat feeling. Tearing feels like a scream inside your central nervous system. The pain is insanity; it is sky-rending. It changes the topography of your existence. It is an outrage, animalistic and antiquated. Yet, here it is.
Your teeth will gnash and, were you thinking more clearly, you would realize that you finally understand that phrase. It is apt. It sings.
Yes, flesh tears, and skin tears. Bones snap like carrots, wet and thick.
It is an indignity, this sort of death. It reduces.
Horror is an albatross, big and ungainly. It lives in the air and rarely touches down. Horror is a fat boy who knocks you down just to sit on your chest. You thrash and claw, but the window of your eyes begins to close as your breath goes. You hear him laughing. You can feel it in your bones.
There is a sexual charge to it. The kind of resignation that feels like redemption. This is everything, you think. This is the meaning of it all. This fear, this sensation will blot out the misery of banality. It will help you cast off that life of quiet desperation. You will be better for it.
At the edge of death is peace. It is a warm, cozy place. You will peep through the window, but not open the door. Not now. The door will stay shut until it opens against your will. This is your curse.
This is agony.