Chapter Text
Chapter Fifteen: Fields of the Fatherless
He stalked through the brush, footsteps light against the snow. Every step calculated, measured, and precise. He was a predator, eyes trained on his prey.
A fox, dark fur stark against the bright snow, dug its paws into the earth. It scratched, digging until it uncovered earthworms.
Fresh fallen snow cushioned the sounds of Abaddon’s footsteps as he approached and crouched to the ground. He did not dare breathe, for a single noise would give away his position.
He paused for a moment.
Then lunged out of the bush, grabbing the fox with both hands. It barked, thrashing in his grip, scratching. They tumbled, rolling and biting, until he sank his teeth into its neck, silencing it.
Success.
He bounded back towards the hotel, clutching his prize in his arms. The warm hands of the manor embraced him, welcoming him out of the cold.
He sat down on the hardwood, tearing open the creature's flesh, blood spilling onto the floor.
Disgusting. How could you defile an innocent creature?
I am but simply replenishing my strength.
Abaddon ripped out the ribs, laying them in a neat pile.
It is just a poor fox!
It is a simple-minded creature that serves no purpose other than to kill or to be killed by predators.
He started with the heart, which was his favourite. It had a spongy texture and burst on his tongue most pleasantly.
But food does not bring us near to God; we are no worse if we do not eat, and no better if we do.
Silence your nonsensical biblical ramblings.
No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so you can endure it.
Shut up.
But I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh.
Abaddon ignored the vessel, digging his fingers into tender, twitching muscle. He ripped it from the tendons, muscle snapping.
When you sit down to eat with a ruler, observe carefully what is before you, and put a knife to your throat, if you are given to appetite. Do not desire his delicacies, for they are deceptive food. Do not toil to acquire wealth, be discerning enough to desist. When your eyes light on it, it is gone, for suddenly it sprouts wings, flying like an eagle towards heaven.
Shut up!
He shoved the muscle into his mouth, slick juices sliding across his tongue.
Do not eat the bread of a man who is stingy; do not desire his delicacies, for he is like one who is inwardly calculating. ‘Eat and drink!’ he says to you, but his heart is not with you.
Lishtok! He hissed.
You will vomit up the morsels that you have eaten, and waste your pleasant words. Do not speak in the hearing of a fool, for he will despise the good sense of your words.
He dropped the morsel of food from his hands, pressing his palms into his brows. Your feeble holy words cannot overpower Abaddon, foolish mortal!
The child continued to speak, as if he were unable to stop. Do not move an ancient landmark, or enter the fields of the fatherless, for their Redeemer is strong; he will plead their cause against you. Apply your heart to instruction, and your ear to the words of knowledge.
Abaddon pressed, pressing, pressing, as if the pressure could drive the unwanted presence from his mind.
Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you strike him with a rod, he will not die.
SHUT UP!
If you strike him with the rod, you will save his soul from Sheol.
Abaddon breathes, the scent of smoke and anticipation thick in the air.
To be born into sin is to be punished.
To breathe is to disobey.
The consequence of disobedience is the shadow that follows.
Following into fire, eternal and unrelenting.
He is bound by the thick chains of shame, pulling him deep into the hot dirt. Eyes peer at him through the darkness, alight with glee. He is a macabre spectacle of entertainment.
Azazel, an ancient Muvas, steps into the light, hooves dragging in the dirt. His wings hang heavy behind him, feathers darkened with sin.
Breathing is to sinning is to suffering is to discipline.
“Gathered here we are on this unpleasant day to witness the stripping of the title of the Kil’ayim, Abaddon. Henceforth, by my hand, I revoke your status.” He speaks, voice filling the space like a thick smoke.
Abaddon remains still, hanging his head. He cannot speak; words will not save him.
To show fear is to show weakness.
To be weak is to be worthless.
Worthlessness is less than.
Hands grip the base of his shoulders, grabbing his wings. Not quite feathers, but not quite skin either. A disgusting in-between, impure, and hybrid.
Abaddon is disgusting.
With one, swift movement, Azazel rips, rips, ripping—bones splintering, flesh tearing, tendons snapping.
The detached appendages fall to the ground in a heap, no longer twitching.
Abaddon grits his teeth, biting back a scream. Pain bursts in his shoulders, searing and heavy.
To be punished is to learn.
To learn is to thrive.
Thriving is falling is colliding.
The cheers sound muffled to his ears, although if it were at a distance.
Azazel takes two steps back, grasping a cat o’ nine tails. He combs his claws through the tails, separating the thin strands of rope.
To be born is to be punished.
To be born is to be of sin.
To be born is disgusting.
Abaddon braces himself.
Azazel swings the whip over his head, stepping forward, cracking it against the demon’s back.
Pain blossoms, disgustingly bright. His nerves are alight with flames, quivering.
To suffer is to breathe.
The next stroke comes too soon.
Abaddon bites his tongue. He tastes blood.
Abaddon inhaled sharply.
Phantom sensation was not an unfamiliar feeling for him. Over the past three hundred years, he had mastered the art of maneuvering a four-limbed human body.
But in rare moments, he could feel his wings heavy on his back, fluttering with the wind, vivid and sober.
He does not dwell in the moment.
You dare use my own mind against me, you worthless little rat?
The vessel pressed against his skull, you misunderstand. You disrespect God’s creatures, His children. I cannot allow you to commit such vile acts with my hands.
You are not as pious as you think.
I only wish to honour the Lord with my hands.
Dare not–
I blink, holding my hands in front of me. They are stained red, dripping.
The fox lay before me, mutilated. I pray that its soul is at rest.
I inhale, breathing in the stale hotel air.
The demon claws at my mind, shrieking, I WILL MAKE YOU SUFFER!
Existence with you is suffering enough.
My mouth tastes of salt, metal, and something sour.
The demon takes hold of my hands, twisting and manipulating the muscles. I push against him.
Abaddon dug his nails into his arms, raking down.
I cry out. Please stop! I writhe against him, but his grip on my hands remains firm.
Blood wept from the open wounds, dripping down his skin. The pain brought him clarity, but it is not enough.
Why are you doing this?! I struggle.
He scratched, scratching, scratching—tearing gashes.
Please stop!
Finally, the pain brought him to the front of the mind, seizing complete control. Know your place, boy. He snarled.
The vessel backed away, retreating.
Now he can eat in peace.
Abaddon picked up the raw muscle from the floor, tearing his teeth into his fibers. With every swallow, he breathed in newfound vigor.
He did not acquire sustenance to survive. But consuming the blood of the innocent brought his soul inner strength to overpower the vessel. It was his advantage; he had the upper hand.
“Abaddon?”
The demon twisted, hissing at the sudden interruption. He bared his teeth, threatening.
“Whoa, whoa!” Nathan held up his hands, “It’s just me, buddy!”
Abaddon scowled, turning back to his meal. Damned stupid humans. Do they not understand that it is rude to intrude on a feeding demon?
Nathan grabbed him from under his armpits, pulling him away from the carcass, “Don’t eat that! I’m pretty sure that’s not good for you.”
“NO! DO NOT INTERRUPT ME, HUMAN!” He howled, thrashing in his grip.
“You are in desperate need of a bath.” Nathan scrunched his nose, holding the demon at an arm’s length.
“DAMN YOU!” He screamed, flailing while Nathan carried him away from his unfinished meal.
Rage curled in his belly, hot and sharp. How dare this human impede on my feeding?!
Nathan brought him to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and locking it. Fuck. The moment the demon’s feet touched the tile, he whipped around to face him, his face twisted with anger.
“YOU WILL RUE THE DAY YOU CROSS ME, MORTAL! FOR I, ABADDON, THE COBRA KING, WILL SMITE YOUR PATHETIC EXISTENCE OFF THIS PUNY ROCK!”
Nathan stared at him, unfazed, “That’s nice, you’re still getting a bath.”
Abaddon growled, his hands curling into fists at his sides. This human will not best him.
He lunged at Nathan, teeth gnashing and nails scratching. The human tumbled, his back slamming against the door.
Nathan pushed against him, holding him by his wrists. Abaddon pushed back, but the human was much stronger than he.
The tides were not in Abaddon’s favour. This body was weak, fragile, and deeply flawed.
“Jeez, what’s wrong with you?”
To be born is disgusting.
Abaddon growled, a wet strangled rattle in his throat.
Nathan pushed his back against the cold tile, holding him to the ground with one hand. He writhed under Nathan’s palm, hands scratching at the human’s arm.
He was helplessly pinned, wings pierced, and on display. Instead of alluring and delicate like a butterfly, he was disgusting.
The consequence of disobedience is the shadow that follows.
He twisted, snarling.
Kil’ayim.
“FUCK YOU!” Abaddon spat.
Whispers wormed under his skin, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.
“You’re getting a bath, whether you like it or not.” Nathan wrestled off Abaddon’s blood-soaked shirt, tossing it aside.
Nathan stared at the demon’s arms, suddenly still.
Bare and exposed to the world, Abaddon felt the urge hide his raw skin.
“Abaddon,” He spoke, his voice quiet and shaking, “did you…?”
Abaddon said nothing, glaring at him intensely.
Nathan pulled him up into an embrace. His arms wrapped around him, tight, pressing him against his chest. He could hear the human’s heartbeat underneath his skin, fluttering—tender contact, skin-to-skin, warm and pressing. Abaddon remained stiff in his arms, as if moving would shatter him. The feeling in his chest grew nauseous, sickened with unnamed emotion. He breathed into the fabric, the scent grounding and salving.
He often found himself untethered from this reality’s plane, wrapped in ancient, dead affairs. The past plagued him, staining his fingertips and writhing in his marrow. It clung to his skin like a shadow, sticky and disgusting. It screamed at him, shrieking heavy words that echoed in his skull. It reeked of rusted blood, dying embers, and dust.
But in this moment, he could only hear the gentle thudding of Nathan’s heartbeat and smell his musk.
Nathan withdrew with a heavy exhale, holding him by his shoulders. “I’m sorry. Let’s try this again—you’re taking a bath, okay? I’ll play the beach music, use the bubble soap, and make the water super hot. Does that sound okay?”
Abaddon grumbled an agreement, turning away.
He stood up, “Okay. Can you get undressed, or do you want me to help you?”
“I can do it myself.” The demon mumbled, his cheeks hot.
If the other demons could see Abaddon now, they would howl with laughter. He had grown soft, edges worn with time.
He was pathetically disgusting.
“Abaddon, how do you feel about going to a party?” Nathan looked over his shoulder, his arms in the sink.
Abaddon ceased the consumption of the yoghurt, meeting the human’s gaze. “What is a party?”
“It’s like uh, social gathering! Where you hang out with other people.”
The mere suggestion of human social functions made his stomach curl uncomfortably. He did not make a habit of associating himself with humans, and he did not plan to start now.
“Why would I want to attend a human social gathering? It would be unbecoming.”
“Trust me,” Nathan smiled, “It’ll be fun! You can hang out with other kids your age.”
Abaddon grimaced, “I do not wish to fraternize with those disgusting primates.”
“You’ll like it, I promise! Think of it more as… an opportunity to observe social humans in their natural habitat!”
The idea intrigued Abaddon. Humans had always puzzled him; they were emotional, weak, and stupid. Yet they persevered, though they march towards death’s door with every breath.
Why do they still try when, in the end, it is all for naught?
They clung to silly ideas about family, religion, and social connections, though they were all meaningless. They would all perish, their bones crumbling to dust, the planet eventually engulfed by the sun’s tide.
Abaddon chewed on the idea, the taste promising on his tongue.
The opportunity to observe, to understand, was enticing.
Abaddon hummed an affirmation, turning back to his yoghurt.
Abaddon did not trust the smiling man.
He was friendly, too friendly. Broad smile, loud voice, and big gestures. Overconfidence. Naive. And he smelled of roses.
Abaddon did not know what to expect from a 'party', maybe rituals or chants by a bonfire.
It was causally relaxed, humans gathered in their preferred social groups, chatting about nonsense. They ate small cubed cheese and drank from fancy glasses.
The scent of pine, spice, and humans permeated his nostrils. The wall of smell almost knocked him off his feet; he had never been amongst so many humans before.
The hairs of his arms stood on end, his eyes scoured, and his shoulders tensed. Uneasily, he trailed after Nathan, stepping in his shadow.
This must not deter him. Abaddon is on a mission, one he will not fail.
While Nathan blabbered away at some human woman, a fountain caught his eye. Rings of rich stickiness spilling over its ridges, captivating.
He must investigate.
Abaddon hoisted himself up onto the table, the tablecloth slipping under his palms. He tucked his legs underneath himself, dipping his fingertips in the substance.
It was warm to the touch, thick and gooey. He licked his fingers; it tasted sweet.
"Oh, bud, no climbing on the tables," Nathan spoke from behind, scooping him up and away from the fountain of mystery.
"I was in the middle of something," Abaddon grumbled as the human placed him on the floor.
"We're guests here, we have to be nice. That means no climbing on furniture." Nathan wiped the demon's fingers with a napkin.
"It is a better vantage point," Abaddon protested, "I can see weaknesses."
"Still no climbing. Why don't you go run off and play with those kids over there?" Nathan gestured toward a group of human children playing quietly together.
Abaddon felt apprehension bubble up in his stomach.
Young humans were more unpredictable than their seniors. Easily influenced, irrational, and volatile.
He did not trust humans—adults and children for separate reasons. Adults were bound by bias, chary to change. Children were inconsistent and emotional, though they inevitably followed the footsteps of their elders.
“Just try, it’ll be okay,” Nathan smiled gently, giving Abaddon a gentle push.
This was not part of the plan.
But it is what Nathaniel wishes.
Abaddon approached the children ambivalently, glancing back at Nathan, who gave him an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up.
He inhaled.
One of the kids looked up, her eyes bright and warm. “Hi!”
“Hello,” Abaddon mumbled, scuffing the carpet with his shoe. Threads of apprehension and febrile wound together tight in his chest, hotly uncomfortable.
“Do you want to play?”
The cadence of words chimed in his skull, reaching down into the dirt and drawing out his gnarled roots.
Tucked in the mountains, the Catskills Academy was a quiet place of education, religion, and budding community. It was the perfect place to send your children. Where you could trust they would be taken care of, educated, and nurtured.
At least, that is what was written on paper. Reality was much different.
With strict hierarchies, stricter teachers, and rules tight enough to choke, it was the closest place on earth comparable to Hell, at least, by Abaddon's standards.
But it was not home.
Only a hundred years had passed, and he got caught. Again. He tried to be careful, having several run-ins with the locals in the past, but his recent habit of breaking into the town's homes at night and stealing their belongings landed him in trouble. Bored and restless, he could not help but terrorize the town that had bound him to this body at every waking moment. He watched the village grow from the sidelines, hand-made production giving way to machines, railroads, and steam engines, all passing in a blur as humanity industrialized itself, one cog at a time.
One warm autumn night, he was caught trespassing by a human man.
Orphaned, alone, and clearly troubled, Abaddon was sent off to Catskills Academy.
He loathed the school, the blasphemous religious lessons, the stink of human adolescence, and its authoritarian nature.
They took his clothes, cut his hair, and beat him at every utterance of his mother tongue.
He attempted escape at every opportunity. Climbing the fence, jumping out a window, bribing the nuns to turn a blind eye. But each endeavor ended the same way: getting caught and getting the paddle.
He was quickly labeled as 'unruly' and 'difficult' after the first escape attempt. The nuns kept a close eye on him, not hesitating to exercise their authority to keep him in line.
It frustrated him to no end. He had watched humanity transform from simple apes into societies that built tools and cultivated agriculture. He had existed long before these humans and will exist long after. Why do they overpower him?
Abaddon had a long streak of terrible, rotten luck. As if his very soul was cursed, he had been ostracized from his own kind, fallen from his status, and bound to this puny vessel, damned to wander the stars until time unravelled.
The nuns were cruel, but the children were crueler. They could smell his soft spots, his weaknesses, and they exploited every chance to torment him, then kick him when he was down.
"Hey!"
A child catches up to him, waving and grinning. Abaddon stops, turning.
He merely regards the child with vague interest. The adolescents who harassed him were typically older, bigger, and stronger. This child was roughly his size, skinny, and young.
"Do you want to play scatter jacks?" The child rummages in his pockets, pulling out small metal jacks and a rubber ball.
Abaddon smells the underlying tone of something much more sinister. "Why?" He asks simply.
"Because I want to play with you. Do I need another reason?" The child smiles at him, the expression not quite reaching his eyes.
Foolishly, for a moment, Abaddon almost believed his kindness was genuine.
"Alright." He replies, sitting down in the dirt.
The boy sits across from him, tossing the jacks and scattering them loosely across the ground. He bounces the ball, scooping up a single jack and the ball after its second bounce. He passes the jack from one hand to the other and bounces the ball again.
This continues until he holds all the jacks in his palm.
He hands Abaddon the ball with a grin, then scattering the jacks, "Your turn!"
Abaddon quite enjoyed games; they were a delightful exercise of the mind. Strategy, dexterity, and speed were the key elements to the game of scatter jacks.
He bounces the ball, scooping up a single jack.
He bounces the ball again.
A shadow looms over him.
While he scoops up a jack, a foot stomps on his hand, delicate bone crushing under the force.
Abaddon whips around, hissing.
Three older boys stand over him, smirking. Abaddon knew their faces well: sixth years, Samuel, Fredrick, and Jeremiah. They regularly picked on him, tripping him in the hallways, locking him in the janitorial closet, and cornering him to beat the shit out of him just for the fun of it.
Abaddon did not understand why they chose him specifically to torment.
“Oops! You lose.” Samuel sniggers as the ball rolls in the dirt. He presses his heel harder into Abaddon’s hand.
“I did not! You cheat.” Abaddon glares at him fiercely. Oh, how he wishes he had his powers. He would shred Samuel into bloody ribbons and scatter his entrails across the schoolyard.
“Hm, I didn’t see anything, did you?” The boy turns to his comrades, the other boys chiming in agreement.
Abaddon punches him in the groin.
Samuel stumbles back, swearing. He glares, laced with venom. “You’re going to pay for that, you little shit!”
Before the demon could even scramble to his feet, the two other boys grab him by the shoulders, slamming him against the brick wall.
The bricks cut into his back, stabbing.
Abaddon writhes against their grip, pinned against the wall. But they are much bigger than he is, their bodies more developed, and their muscles sturdy.
After Samuel gains his bearings, he storms up to the demon, face twisted with fury. “You’re going to regret that, faggot.”
He knees Abaddon in the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. He coughs, gasping for breath.
“You’re a disgusting freak.” Samuel hisses in his ear, grabbing a fistful of hair.
Abaddon snarls, spitting at his face.
Samuel smashed the back of the demon’s head against the brick.
Abaddon lay in a heap on the dirt, bleeding and sore.
Nobody looks in his direction.
He breathes in the dirt, coarse and gritty against his throat.
“We’re playing hangman!” The child says, gesturing toward the scribbles on the paper tablecloth.
Abaddon squints.
“That does not look like a hanged man.” He noted.
She blinked, “What? This is how you play hangman.”
He shook his head, snatching the crayon from her grip. In the open white space, he scratched out a picture, gruesome and loutish.
Eyes bulging, veins popping, facial congestion—he sketched. He stepped back from his masterpiece, glancing at the other children to gauge their opinion.
They looked upon him with horror and disgust.
“That’s gross!” One gagged.
“Ew!” Another recoiled.
“That’s disgusting!” A boy grimaced.
Abaddon glared at the boy, “You are disgusting.”
“Nuh uh! You are.” The boy glared back.
The coil winding in his gut snapped, white-hot. Shrapnel pierced his guts, sharp bits of metal digging into his organs.
He shoved the boy to the ground, pinning him to the carpet by his shoulders. “TAKE THAT BACK!” He snarled, gritting his teeth.
“Get off of me, you freak!” The boy wrestled against him.
Abaddon pressed his forearm into the boy’s chest, pushing him down. He shoved the crayon up the boy’s nose.
The boy burst into tears. Abaddon grinned viciously, satisfaction curling warm in his stomach.
With unexpected strength, the boy shoved him off, scrambling to his feet and retreating, sobbing all the while.
The other children trailed after him, shooting sharp glares back toward the demon.
Abaddon stood, dusting himself off.
The realization struck him cold, tolling like an old bell.
Nathan said not to attack anyone.
He glanced around, his nerves sparking. Nathan was nowhere to be seen, his scent gone stale.
Abaddon breathed a sigh of relief. Thank Satan.
He was briefly aware of the way his palms sweat, his breath catching in his throat, and his thoughts balancing on the edge of a blade. He brushed it off; that would be a problem for later.
Abaddon stood from the sidelines, observing. He lurked in the shadows, silent.
Nathan stood up on a small stage, his shoulders loose and his hands unsteady. His face was painted warm, cheeks flushed open like a rose. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead, glistening in the overhead lights. With a dazed gaze, shaking hands, he belted out notes, crooked and out of tune, overlaying the music like thorns.
Abaddon watched the open, gormless display with a grimace. Nathan was a strange human, but he had never seen him perform himself in such a way. The air hummed with abashed electricity, the sparks murmuring and the strands whispering.
The human tripped over the microphone cord, catching himself at the last moment and looking up.
His eyes snapped with sudden cognizance, sobering and dry.
He retched, vomiting on his shoes. Gasps rippled through the crowd, rising and falling.
Abaddon watched.
He could not pin the names of the hot sensations building in his bosom; they pricked his lungs and clawed his ribs.
Did he feel pity?
No, that is ludicrous. Demons do not feel.
Concern?
Demons do NOT feel.
Nathan stumbled down the steps, pushing his way through the crowd. They parted around him like the sea.
The two lock eyes.
The connection is zapping, jolting, and fragmenting—shattering.
Nathan walked up to him, grabbed his hand, and mumbled something incoherent. He pulled the demon along, his grip hot and heavy.
Abaddon unwillingly followed the human apprehensively.
He caught the scent of something acidic, fermented, and almost sweet. The smell radiated off Nathan in nauseating waves, nearly making him gag.
"I think you are unwell." He said as Nathan dragged him out to the car. The wind cut his skin, exposing raw nerves.
"Noo, I'mmfine," Nathan slurred, opening the car door, "Gettin."
In this moment, Abaddon understood Nathan less than ever. He smelled strange, he acted strange, and he spoke strange. Everything about this was strange.
He hesitantly crawled into his seat.
Nathan slammed the car door shut, the metal frame rattling. He slid into the front seat, shoving the key into the ignition and missing. He mumbled obscenities and slid the key into the slot. The engine purred, sputtering.
The car jerked, suddenly accelerating. Abaddon gripped the sides of the seat, nails digging into the fabric.
"What is wrong with you?" He asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Just sstupid adultshit. Don'tworry about it." Nathan spoke slowly, although the words dripping from his mouth were made of sticky honey.
Trepidation clawed up Abaddon's throat, scratching the flesh raw. "Are you ill?"
"No." The car swerved, making his chest jump.
"Are you injured?" He did not smell blood.
"No." The engine thundered, the air sparking.
Nathan was neither ill nor injured. Perhaps it was something he had consumed?
Poison. It had to be poison. That would explain everything.
"Nathan, I think you have been poisoned."
The human shot him a sharp glare, "Jusst lemme drive! Youdon't understand.”
Sudden jolting movement made Abaddon’s stomach twist. “Nathan.” He hissed.
“You’rejust a kid. It’ssnot your job todo sstupid adult shit. To talk to sstupid adults about stupidsshit and do stupid adult things.” Nathan’s speech smeared—ink across a page.
“Nathan.”
The human continued to blabber, his words crashing into each other incoherently. “Soowhat if nobody inthis stupid fucking town likessme! Idon't care.”
“Nathan.”
A honk! As the car drifted into the wrong lane.
“They’reall abuncha hypocrites anyway! Who evencaress? We all know theyall go hometo their stupid happy marriagessand stupid happy jobsand stupid fucking happy life!”
Veering, the automobile curved sharply.
“Nathan!”
CRUNCH!
He lurched forward, whole body jerking stoutly. The force of the movement sent reverberating echoes through his body, his bones shaking. His muscles tensed, going rigid.
The automobile had come to a sudden stop, the front half crumpled by a tree.
The delicate skin of lungs snagged on bone, porous and cutting. Every inhale caught in his throat, stuttering and gasping. Every exhale a pathetic whisper, rasping with effort.
The seabelt dug into his shoulder, the thin splintered bone curving around the threaded fabric. His arm twitched–GRINDING, CRACKING, STABBING–he cradled his arm to his chest instinctively.
He sat up, wheezing. The delicate skin of his lungs brushed against porous bone, twitching and writhing.
Nathan lay slumped in the driver’s seat, blood dripping onto the carpeted floors.