Creative Writing Series 1

I shoved my fist down his throat. I swirled my hand around for a little before deciding which to take first. His stomach seemed alright…so, I squeezed it tight and yanked it up through his mouth.

I went down again.

This time I went for his liver.
I dragged it back up through his mouth.

He doesn’t need to be detoxified.
My poison is already coursing through his veins.

I paused.

He didn’t wince in pain, but in anger instead.

I went down a third time.
This time I clawed a piece of his lung.
I pulled it up through his mouth.
He could still breathe with what he had left. Besides, I needed that piece more anyway. His air was my air. I knew he wouldn’t try and stop me from taking it.

I went down a fourth time.
This time I went for the heart.
I plucked it apart bit by bit.
Artery by artery.
Vein by vein.
Slowly I pulled each piece out of his mouth.

I pulled and pulled until there was nothing left.

He laid there.
Eyes open.

He looked dead, except his mouth was closed.
Most dead faces have their mouth open, the ones I’ve seen anyway.

He laid there.
Eyes empty.
Body empty.
Body shriveled up.

Body empty, body shriveled up.
And for what?
For me.

Because he could handle it.
Because he let me take and take and take
Until there was nothing left.

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