The Slob

by Aron Beauregard

COLLECTOR YOU ARE WHAT YOU

You can’t change what cloth you’ve been cut from but you can at least try to wash it.

The undeniable appalling comprehension that death couldn’t be spellbound and contorted to appease her. There was no way to tame or beckon it with total accuracy, no, it was only the malicious shrouded skeleton that could beckon you. Mr. Bones wasn’t quite ready yet.

Terror in itself is a helpless feeling that is usually injected immediately into our systems. Almost like it’s just sitting dormant, filling a needle that is already poking into our veins.

The vacuum had somehow stopped, I must’ve torn the cord out of the wall when I fell down. The putrid soup within it still looked to contain my blood and the meats that The Slob had sucked out from inside me.