For him, a man who cherished the movement of life—the course of days—this waiting was killing him, or so he thought, amazed how the act of waiting required an exhausting amount of strength and focus.
Those around him worried depression had discovered him and he took note of their attention. At times, it seemed as if they had almost willed this corporeal disturbance in his chest. However, he could easily admit to himself the grind of his focus was ultimately guilty of creating this germinating depression. He found himself randomly staring it directly in the eyes in restroom mirrors or the reflections in an elevator door, sensing its taste for his destruction. It fed on lackadaisical moments between waking in the morning and the appearance of coffee, during those normally forgettable minutes in line at the convenience store, or staring into the vibratory red of a traffic signal. It developed an odor. He failed to pinpoint the familiarity of the smell but he recognized it. A texture bubbled across its surface with an annoying grace, a subtlety beaded ribbon of cognizance wrapping around his chest, slithering the tunnels of muscle and gristle leading to his throat where it would constrict and writhe. That which initially he suspected as a parasite soon revealed itself the engineer of a cocoon. He had been transformed to chrysalis, no longer the selfish thing in command of a mind or body—a mind and body he could barely remember—but a thing built by the creature.
Chrysalis, a growing collection of very short fiction.
That Night Filled Mountain
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Unless noted, all pics credited to Skitz O'Fuel.