GuNNhead

Deep in its web, it lurks. Gossamer strings stretch for kilometers, vibrations of the essence of beings who become trapped in their heads, in its bed. It feels your pull on its tiny leg hairs. It does not live for flavor, or to savor, it is to consume, it does not live. In your sleep, your mind is rotating, being wrapped up in its threads, a sliver of dream extending from its spinnerettes, caressing your consciousness, gentle pedipalp packaging. You walked into this devildeath, to be swaddled as a baby, fawned over, admired in eight eyes. Attention and care, massaged in silk, comfort blankets your entire vibe. You glow to it, you know, just like heaven.

There is no way to stop it, you don’t need to feel alive, a calm of stunted growth, preserved as you are. Your innards remain, it does not crave the corporeal, fangs of the metaphysical enter your thought, and your sense of future begins to necrotize from the venom injected. Numinous neurotoxin spreads, and spreads, and spreads. Across time, across space, you will die, consumed and left a monument to the mastery of the devildeath’s craft. Your self will remain there, as you continue to walk around, hollow and alone, void of what once made it move so determinately long ago. You are remembered, like distant stars and a rainstorm out of the blue, falling for what seems like forever, but can only be glimpsed so briefly in our time. A rain drop on a tongue, a meteor in the heat of a sun, you have arrived at one inevitability.

It gently sways to itself as it has its drinks of you. Its abdomen and legs moving to an unheard rhythm within your life. It occasionally stops to brush your hair from your face, place soft chelicerae smooches upon your brow. As you come undone, it knows you. Each sip, a memory, every gulp, a moment; the swigs are loves. It feels no remorse, but it feels the potential you once had for yourself in your mind that will no longer be able to be achieved; consumed. It wishes that you had accomplished your goals for you, but knows that to live, all who fall into its web cannot, it has felt the remorse of lost potential for the entirety of its existence, that is how it lives up to its fullest destiny. A spectral spider, webs lining the space between dream and reality, consuming the past and preventing the future, Devildeath.

You wake up, and take a walk to clear the cobwebs from your head.

This entry was posted on May 28, 2018 at 3:33 am and is filed under Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.