The boy stops feasting. His neck twists farther than bones would allow, fixing that broken gaze on me. Dark hollows fill the spaces where his eyes once were. Their edges move, hundreds of slender black streaks spreading slowly outward. No, not streaks. Worms. The dying sunlight glints off their segmented backs as each one writhes, desperate to burrow its way deeper inside. But there’s too many, and some lose their grip, rot’s tears sliding down toward the corner of his lips. He smiles. My mind shudders. I was so desperate for Sam to be here, guiding me, that I never looked past the shadow.
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