Grotesque Form

by R.T. Allenson

It was grotesque, the form of flesh that lay on the bed. It was no longer human, not to his eyes, no familiar eyes to meet his, no warmth in his touch to make him feel alive.

It was all cold, the form of flesh that lay on the bed. Only the memories remained, of how once upon a time, they ran together across the world like nothing could stop them – as if the world, their world, had no limits.  No rules, everything else was second and only the two of them mattered.

Then came the accident, the bullet with the shadow of death trailing from the smoking gun. A miracle that he survived, but in his state, dying would have been a more welcome thing. It left him paralyzed, less a human and more a ragdoll, a useless thing, but the love was still there though it pained him to carry on. They were no longer two, just one and a half now.

He pondered about the future and looked at his lover, his grotesque form, nothing more than seething flesh and fat that moaned and slithered uselessly. His hand clasped the knife firmly and then, saying a final goodbye, he stepped into oblivion and crowned him with blood and darkness.