Chapter Text
^Cover Art by Dusstey^
When you died, you went out kicking and screaming.
ㅤㅤ One, two times you were stabbed alarmingly close to the aortic valve, before it was properly gotten. Your soul decanted itself from its body along with your blood, a blooming chrysanthemum of red on an off-white blouse.
ㅤㅤ It was a strange feeling, to be killed. The steel so intimately sheathed in the deepest recess of your flesh, cold leeching warmth. Again, again. The eyes attached to the body attached to the knife were scrutinizing you even in your death throes. The blade whispered as it withdrew each time. And every time it entered, the sound grew wetter. Where weren’t you stabbed?
ㅤㅤ The next hour was spent in a somnolent state: half in Whitchapel, half in whatever was beneath. You did not feel the excavation of your guts, nor the slitting of your throat (which finally killed the body). You did not feel any of this, because you were floating above yourself, watching, tethered to yourself by a slim, silver cord. But as your neck severed, so did the cord.
ㅤㅤ You do not recall those moments, betwixt the transitive state of life and death. Consciousness and spirit: an emulsion in the fog, like a sleep.
Oh, that was ages ago.