The prompt at Sunday Scribblings “hungry.”
"Interpret it how you will" was the instructions. And here you go:
Gray skin, mottled like rotting meat, stretches taut over brittle bones.
Gnarled hands, blue veins pulsating, tap, tap, tap upon an old oak armchair.
A stained comforter covers his legs. Skeleton appendages with dead and black toes, there’s no walk left in them.
He’s hungry, and the ravenous gnawing grows by the second.
There’s no clatter of pots or plates in the kitchen. The only sounds in the dingy studio come from the clock on the mantle, the rattle of his struggled breath through decrepit lungs.
He’s starving, slow and deliberate.
No smells waft from the kitchen, no tang of tomato sauce or even the clean graininess from a simple pot of rice. The only smells are the sickly-sweet scent of potpourri broiling from every electric socket and every scented plug-in – as well as the underlying, unmistakable stench of death.
She had died quietly in the bed they’d shared across the years. The grief weighed on him, like sacks of cement laid upon on his withered chest. That grief, that unbearable weight, was paralyzing.
And yet he hungered.
Not for a meal, but for his own death, which was so closing in that he thought he could hear distinct footfalls. It was a comfort, this yearning to break free.
And join her, wherever that was.
The Walking Rock Alphabet: I
3 hours ago