/lit/ - Literature

He was at the entrance to a shed somewhere. It was in the middle of the forest where tall, slender, knobbly-trunked trees guarded the tumbledown shack. In the corner of the dilapidated shelter was situated a blocky throne and sitting in it was a man dressed in thick white robes.
Logan looked down. He was stripped bare except for his pants, which were slashed and tattered enough to be more like an extravagant loincloth if anything. The soil underneath his feet was slightly moist and oozed between the gaps of his toes. A tide of panic rose in his chest as he perceived long, half-dried lacerations across his abdomen and chest. Dirt was smeared across all of his exposed skin and he just now he noticed his mouth was unbearably dry.
A thick loud dripping noise like giant drops of viscous fluid falling into a sink pervaded the shack. Logan’s head snapped up. The robed man inside started wailing. Loud inhuman noises—halfway between a death rattle and choking—poured from him and Logan noticed something else pouring out with it. The man’s face was covered with a thick rubber mask which was the same color as his robes with a large band of cloth wrapped around its lower half so only the black semi-rectangular holes for eyes were visible. A long and damp streak of red ran down the middle of the cloth, running in a crimson stream that coagulated into a fist-sized splotch in his lap.
Logan’s breathing accelerated. His limbs felt light and the wounds didn’t bother him. The brightness of the shack was acute and blinding—it seemed everything in there was a slight shining color. His body could run a marathon, it seemed, but his mind kept his flesh petrified just near the entrance to the shack.
Logan’s breathing hitched when he saw the man brandishing a straight razor. He slung it half-open, but he wasn’t aiming for Logan. His arms were jerking left and right and spasming uncontrollably, his grip loosened and then reaffirmed himself, the blade slashed around in the air. A burning nausea climbed to the back of Logan’s throat, and he grasped the sides of the fragile entrance, which cracked and caved underneath his grip.
The man made the decision and plunged the razor into his own stomach. Logan’s body hollowed out and his face turned ghost-white. The robed man slid the knife out of his stomach and stabbed over and over and over into himself, his wailing growing louder—thick pieces of skin unraveling around his stomach—a gagging and sucking noise—a splatter of liquid—a release of tension—a boiling heat released in a white-hot wave—coming in a chariot of fire—

The vision shattered. Logan shot awake while his fingers were clutching with white knuckles his bedsheets. Sweat drenched his neck and forehead, his muscles trembled weakly, his jaw was stiff and his tongue felt lead-hot. Beams of dark-gold projected into his room and onto his blanketed form The sun had risen. His eyes were glistening.