Pinpricks
rating: +10+x

Pinpricks of light sway in the darkness, attached to bodies of gray flesh and mold. Blue and bright, the lights stare at me from the shadows like eyes. It bounces off sloughing, wet skin and walls of black, cut stone. My skin feels loose, but firm in the spots where the light bursts through. I brush my arm and the fat and the flesh peels off, dropping on the floor with a wet thud. Gnawing and gulping follows shortly afterwards.

The pinpricks of light are on me. In me. I feel their tendrils wriggle beneath, burrowing into everything, replacing flesh and nerve where there is none. They pull at my bones and cartilage since my muscles no longer can. They flail out of the gaping hole where my eye used to be. I don't remember when I lost it. Or where. The tendrils don't hurt. Not anymore.

Not after… how long has it been? Did I get them yesterday? Or has it been longer? I think it's been much, much longer. But it could have been yesterday. It doesn't really matter. Not here in the dark.

Still, it'd be nice to know I guess. I reach out to the other pinpricks, shouting to see if they know. They don't answer. I grab one of them, I think his name is, or used to be… something with a D, and ask again. Nothing but dank air and wheezing comes out.

I remember I don't have vocal cords anymore. There's only light in my throat now. I let go off the person who's name used to be something with an A and apologise. My hand feels heavier. Few seconds later I realize that it's in my mouth, and now it feels lighter than before. This works.

I shrug and accept that I won't ever know for sure how long I've been here. There definitely was something before the pinpricks, though. I don't think I was very happy back then. I was somewhere else first. There was… a sky, and red plants. And mushrooms, kind of like the pinpricks and their tendrils, but not as fun.

I remember being angry at… someone. Seems quite pointless now, but back then I was furious, and so were others. We did something that others didn't like. There was blood and steel and fire, and I burned. I was even less happy afterwards. I was forced to move, or someone moved me, and then there was mist and huge shadows of stone.

And shapes in the fog.

I was scared of them then, but now there's a connection of some sort. Has been ever since the big men of steel ran from them and the pinpricks. I… screamed when they slithered in my mouth and my eyes and nostrils and ears and through my skin and my bones, and then I died. Or was I born? Maybe both. I don't know why I'd fear such a wonderful thing, honestly.

The shapes whisper to the pinpricks sometimes. I think they made them.

And I love them for it.

There's images, too, sometimes. The shapes show me what they see. There's people and lights. But they're warm, not like the pinpricks. The shapes don't like them, so I don't either. I don't really know why to be honest. Sometimes I feel like I don't have a choice.

I can feel them now. Walking and breathing and talking and living above us. Most of them don't know we're here. But that's fine, they will soon.

They too will know the pinpricks.

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