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Heart Warming Purgatory

by Alexander Richardson about a year ago in Horror · updated 12 months ago
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Where did the world go?

Heart Warming Purgatory
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

It smells like vomit here every day here, and it keeps getting worse. Every hour, the smell of a bodily fluid is replaced with another. My nostrils are torched every waking moment and I’m never going to get used to it.

I look at my golden locket, it’s heart shape giving me a sense of peace, but it’s not even to distract my nose from the horrific smells.

The scent of blood reeks of rusted metal and claws up my nostrils and soaks into the bottom of my skull, stabbing into my brain. Breathing through my mouth only seeps the taste of moist rust into my tongue, drying out my throat as it travels down my lungs.

The scent of vomit is acidic. Once I become aware of it, it disrupts my entire body. Whether I taste it, or it travels up my nostrils, the smell gets everywhere. It loves to parade down my stomach the most, making sure that my innards stir and boil like a witches cauldron. Luckily, I adapt to the smell before my stomach can boil up whatever I found sitting around, hoping that it was edible.

The scent that hits me the worst is the potent stench of urine. It always starts off by burning my nose hairs and stinging the taste buds on my tongue. Then, that burning feeling spreads all over my face, reminding me that there’s nowhere for me to escape. I’d have to be able to hide from the air itself to avoid the odor that taints it. I’ll never be able to get used to that smell, the most I can do is get used to the pain that it causes me.

I try to take away the focus on the scents by looking into my locket. Inside is the picture of a woman and her child, the last piece of humanity other than myself. I can sit and daydream about what my mother’s touch felt like all day long, or I think about what her fist felt like she when she was drunk. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter because the scents come right back to destroy me.

On the worst occasions, the smells mix together, putting creative twists on how to torture my senses, like it’s a big game. I don’t know if the fluctuation of smells is planned or not, but it’s enough to make me want to rip my tongue out. Who’s to say that the smell really does change every hour? I’m only jumping to that conclusion from my perception of time. In this hell hole, there’s no day or night, it’s only a dark mass that rarely ever sees light.

At first, I thought I was stuck in an average prison cell, but then I sat down on the floor. It moves, pulsates, and writhes, as if it’s alive. It’s always cold and wet, but it’s never soaked or damp, it’s the perfect in between. It used to sicken me, the strange moist popping sounds that accompanied the sounds of tentacles coiling together. It made my stomach churn a couple of times, but now I’ve gotten used to it. It was either I sat down in it and embraced it, or I stood up for the rest of my life.

What’s most disturbing about the floor is what it does when I fall asleep. I don’t know how long I fall asleep, sometimes it feels like a day, sometimes it feels like ten minutes, but whenever I open my eyes, I can feel a warm and wet sensation coiling around my leg. The farthest that feeling has ever gotten is up to my waist, but I simply shake it off and it returns back to the floor without a fuss.

Whenever it returns, I can feel the temperature of it decrease, going back to its bitter cold wet feel. My body hasn’t started dissolving, I don’t feel sick, and no parasites have popped out of my body either. I’m only assuming that it isn’t causing me harm, not that I’d care if it was. What would I be able to do against it if it was eating me? The best I can think of is cry and hope it’s over soon.

When it coils around me, it thought it to be a monster, but now that I think on it, what if it just has pity for me? What if it just wants me to stay warm while I sleep? This strange mass of flesh could be trying to take care of me, and even with the warmth that it gives me in my sleep, it gives me much more.

I used to be able to find random items laying around. I got so hungry that I would test them to see if they were edible, and by test, I mean see if they were chewable or not, but eventually, feeling around the dark didn’t provide any misshapen pieces of possible food. I used to gag like it was a humble pass time, but after a while, I stopped finding those pieces of “food” laying around. All that was left was the mass moving beneath me.

My hunger made me delirious, it made me curious. I grabbed hold of the mass and dug my nails deep, taking as big of a chunk as I could and started gorging it. It was as cold and wet as I expected, even slimy, but it went down easy. It came up just as easy too, but I ended up eating more that was going up, and then my body learned to keep it down.

It made my stomach twist into itself, churning for reasonable food to be sent to it, but that’s not an option down here. It was either eat what I had or die, and I refuse to go out in a place like this.

Interestingly enough, it doesn’t have a taste to it. That must be why I was able to get used to it. I can’t manage eating this with a rancid taste backed by a rancid texture. The stuff even helps get the smells out of my mouth.

It’s weird when streams of light peer through the sealing sometimes. I don’t know where they come from or why, but they let me see what the floor looks like.

It’s a bright array of blue and purple, constantly mixing in with each other. Like skin melding together. It looks just like how I imagined it. It was repulsing at first, but I’d already started eating it by then. I couldn’t find it repulsive; it wouldn’t make any sense.

It’s funny now that I think about it, I used to be scared of this place, convinced that I was going to die here. Now, all that really bothers me are the smells, but I have all the food that I need here and something to keep me warm when I sleep.

Maybe there’s more to this “floor” then I think. It’s starting to feel disrespectful to refer to it as such. There’s obviously more to it than just being what I sit on. It has the ability to end my life in the most miserable way possible, melting my skin in its unrelenting embrace. But it has yet to do that. I can only wonder why, but I’m too busy being grateful to ponder the thought.

I wonder if it has thoughts of its own sometimes, not that there’s a way to figure that out. It’d be ridiculous to think that this mysterious mass has some sort of purpose in its life, but if so, where did it come from? How was it born and why was it born? I know I don’t need to know the answer to these questions, but sometimes they pop into my head and I can’t help but think about it. It’s whatever though.

The real torment comes from the smells, but I can always take from my friend. It’s always willing to share. We’ll only become more accustomed to each other over time.

Maybe one day, it’ll be kind enough to offer me a taste along with its texture. I wonder what it would taste like?


About the author

Alexander Richardson

I've been writing for over 5 years now and I'd love for the chance to share my work with others. I specialize with creative writing and short stories.

Feel free to message me on Instagram @alexander45678901

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