Contributor: Dirky Henkel
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It was Abigail's turn to chop wood, so she left noting the sun's wilt, how glad she was to be far from contact, deep in the solitude of the Grunewald forest. Just us. I blew her a kiss in agreement and resumed my chores. Minutes later, while scrubbing soot from a bucket of dishes, I peered out the window. She was gone from her assigned tree stump. To my left, a shadow grew by the doorway. Then I saw her return, and she was different, more haggard than usual. Something was wrong.
“Abigail?” I called.
She didn't respond. She was swaying against the daylight, eerily stilled, a ragdoll with an axe. I heard her whelp. It was an acknowledgment of her weakness. Just in time, I caught her. We convulsed to the dust. The whiteness of her frock was disappearing behind a crimson plague. Where her neck was, there was a grotesque smile, and I looked at her more angrily than I should've; she was vulnerable, useless like an old dog, and we didn't need this.
“How did this happen, Abigail?”
She shook her head, almost in denial. I heard her wheezing delirium, what sounded like chortling, and judged she was losing air faster than she could keep in. I pressed down on her wound, and she yowled so loud the noise made me wince and unfastened what mettle I had remaining. It was obvious I was burbling at that point even though I couldn't stand her seeing it. My tears fed her lips, that pout once tasted, reminiscent of sweet scarlet roses. Now they were more akin to the color of her essence. By that gape wide enough to stick a finger into, I knotted a bandage, then looped it around again because it wasn't tight enough. Then I still wasn't certain; medical was her thing, not mine. I fumbled, frantic.
“Hold it tight,” I commanded. She did so, and the stifled blood webbed around her hands. I looked down, toward my shirt--it was drenched, too. The sight set me to freeze, to be deaf to the increasing grunts not of this vicinity. Abigail weakly tugged me by the collar, and I blinked away the film, the inner silence. She pointed urgently, handed me the axe. I traced her finger which was hardly straight, saw the dead thing's haunt by our hung clothes outside, by the laundry line. It was just lumbering about at first, but steadily nearing in a brooding anti-kinesthesia. A child, now wallowing in its own flesh-stripped decay--one of them, I knew without a doubt. One of the dead.
I clamped Abigail's cheeks, assured her, “It'll be fine,” and trampled the autumn leaves, trailed the path of brown blotches. My fingers were slippery around the handle, yet I had something lit inside. I saw the thing meet my challenge, hissing at me in fascination. It was half my size, frenetic and befitting of its kind's reputation. I smelled the sulfur ills of its rot, felt the power of its guttural primordiality. I had never been this close to one.
When it lunged forward next, I came apart. With my pulse vibrating in my ears, a sultriness ran down my legs. Its talons, reaching out, came so close I felt the thing's rage, its very aura. But somehow, I managed to swing. It was a jolt, instinctive like my banshee scream. I heard the crack, the sundering of its head, felt the wildly-dispersed splinters. Defeated, it crashed to the grass, and I was ready for more, my adrenaline stirred. I scoured the surroundings, discovered nothing but undeterred nature, and turned back to the cabin. Abigail, jaundiced, was already dead, transforming. There was no time to mourn, but, dragging her out, I lost it. Several times I quit, only to restart with a daub of my cheeks. I chained her between a pair of trees. In her mouth, I stuffed a cloth, taped it shut, and then waited.
Her legs thrashed first. Eventually she came alive, frothing from behind her gag. She pulled at her chains. Again. Then one arm came separated to nullify the trap's purpose. However, I didn't budge, nor was there time to. Too long I'd stood there, too hopeful. This wasn't my love, not in kind, but she was there in appearance, and I fell for the trick. She clamped me in by my blush of locks, flaunted her teeth. And stopped. Our eyes locked, mine tested against her warm, rotting hazel. She was discerning, breathing in my heat, immersed in a different sort of hunger. I let her do what she wanted then. Atop my skull, there was a pressure, an animalistic grip--her hands, clenching, pushing inward.
“Please don't,” I murmured.
Incredibly, she listened, and instead, her hand traced downward, measuring my form. She brushed the old carress of my shoulder; cupped the soft curvature of my breast; palmed my survivor's emaciation; and entered up my skirt, against the flare of my lower lips.
I gasped.
“Abigail...” My breath departed. I held onto her wrist, and it was such a forceful, unrelenting embrace. And, impossibly, it was exacting the forbidden. She began rubbing me, and what escaped my tongue may have alluded to pain, but it wasn't. It felt as though I was having a seizure delivered from God, and it was rising ever more from within my sacred apex. Her fingers encircled, prodded, slapped against my extremity, and I was powerless against my own climax. There was an explosion of memories so vivid of her lust and previous explorations, and it was eternal during what were mere seconds. It was done. I was wet, and I could barely maintain poise. I tried to retreat, accosting her feral innocence, but she wouldn't let go, and then she managed to free herself. I tried to run. It was too late. She had me. I felt her fingernails break the skin on my neck, and I passed out.
When I awoke, impulse had taken over. But somehow, I was still self-aware. We were together again, just Abigail and I. She was feeding me the leg of a deer carcass, insisting that I join her feast. We painted red on each other in a canvas of sex. Love beyond death.
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Dirky Henkel is an unwanted child originally from Berlin, Germany, currently residing in Rehburger Moor. Follow her on Twitter @DirkyHenkel.
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- -
It was Abigail's turn to chop wood, so she left noting the sun's wilt, how glad she was to be far from contact, deep in the solitude of the Grunewald forest. Just us. I blew her a kiss in agreement and resumed my chores. Minutes later, while scrubbing soot from a bucket of dishes, I peered out the window. She was gone from her assigned tree stump. To my left, a shadow grew by the doorway. Then I saw her return, and she was different, more haggard than usual. Something was wrong.
“Abigail?” I called.
She didn't respond. She was swaying against the daylight, eerily stilled, a ragdoll with an axe. I heard her whelp. It was an acknowledgment of her weakness. Just in time, I caught her. We convulsed to the dust. The whiteness of her frock was disappearing behind a crimson plague. Where her neck was, there was a grotesque smile, and I looked at her more angrily than I should've; she was vulnerable, useless like an old dog, and we didn't need this.
“How did this happen, Abigail?”
She shook her head, almost in denial. I heard her wheezing delirium, what sounded like chortling, and judged she was losing air faster than she could keep in. I pressed down on her wound, and she yowled so loud the noise made me wince and unfastened what mettle I had remaining. It was obvious I was burbling at that point even though I couldn't stand her seeing it. My tears fed her lips, that pout once tasted, reminiscent of sweet scarlet roses. Now they were more akin to the color of her essence. By that gape wide enough to stick a finger into, I knotted a bandage, then looped it around again because it wasn't tight enough. Then I still wasn't certain; medical was her thing, not mine. I fumbled, frantic.
“Hold it tight,” I commanded. She did so, and the stifled blood webbed around her hands. I looked down, toward my shirt--it was drenched, too. The sight set me to freeze, to be deaf to the increasing grunts not of this vicinity. Abigail weakly tugged me by the collar, and I blinked away the film, the inner silence. She pointed urgently, handed me the axe. I traced her finger which was hardly straight, saw the dead thing's haunt by our hung clothes outside, by the laundry line. It was just lumbering about at first, but steadily nearing in a brooding anti-kinesthesia. A child, now wallowing in its own flesh-stripped decay--one of them, I knew without a doubt. One of the dead.
I clamped Abigail's cheeks, assured her, “It'll be fine,” and trampled the autumn leaves, trailed the path of brown blotches. My fingers were slippery around the handle, yet I had something lit inside. I saw the thing meet my challenge, hissing at me in fascination. It was half my size, frenetic and befitting of its kind's reputation. I smelled the sulfur ills of its rot, felt the power of its guttural primordiality. I had never been this close to one.
When it lunged forward next, I came apart. With my pulse vibrating in my ears, a sultriness ran down my legs. Its talons, reaching out, came so close I felt the thing's rage, its very aura. But somehow, I managed to swing. It was a jolt, instinctive like my banshee scream. I heard the crack, the sundering of its head, felt the wildly-dispersed splinters. Defeated, it crashed to the grass, and I was ready for more, my adrenaline stirred. I scoured the surroundings, discovered nothing but undeterred nature, and turned back to the cabin. Abigail, jaundiced, was already dead, transforming. There was no time to mourn, but, dragging her out, I lost it. Several times I quit, only to restart with a daub of my cheeks. I chained her between a pair of trees. In her mouth, I stuffed a cloth, taped it shut, and then waited.
Her legs thrashed first. Eventually she came alive, frothing from behind her gag. She pulled at her chains. Again. Then one arm came separated to nullify the trap's purpose. However, I didn't budge, nor was there time to. Too long I'd stood there, too hopeful. This wasn't my love, not in kind, but she was there in appearance, and I fell for the trick. She clamped me in by my blush of locks, flaunted her teeth. And stopped. Our eyes locked, mine tested against her warm, rotting hazel. She was discerning, breathing in my heat, immersed in a different sort of hunger. I let her do what she wanted then. Atop my skull, there was a pressure, an animalistic grip--her hands, clenching, pushing inward.
“Please don't,” I murmured.
Incredibly, she listened, and instead, her hand traced downward, measuring my form. She brushed the old carress of my shoulder; cupped the soft curvature of my breast; palmed my survivor's emaciation; and entered up my skirt, against the flare of my lower lips.
I gasped.
“Abigail...” My breath departed. I held onto her wrist, and it was such a forceful, unrelenting embrace. And, impossibly, it was exacting the forbidden. She began rubbing me, and what escaped my tongue may have alluded to pain, but it wasn't. It felt as though I was having a seizure delivered from God, and it was rising ever more from within my sacred apex. Her fingers encircled, prodded, slapped against my extremity, and I was powerless against my own climax. There was an explosion of memories so vivid of her lust and previous explorations, and it was eternal during what were mere seconds. It was done. I was wet, and I could barely maintain poise. I tried to retreat, accosting her feral innocence, but she wouldn't let go, and then she managed to free herself. I tried to run. It was too late. She had me. I felt her fingernails break the skin on my neck, and I passed out.
When I awoke, impulse had taken over. But somehow, I was still self-aware. We were together again, just Abigail and I. She was feeding me the leg of a deer carcass, insisting that I join her feast. We painted red on each other in a canvas of sex. Love beyond death.
- - -
Dirky Henkel is an unwanted child originally from Berlin, Germany, currently residing in Rehburger Moor. Follow her on Twitter @DirkyHenkel.
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Author:
Dirky Henkel
