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From too little consideration… many noble mansions have been destroyed
-John Buonarotti Papworth, Essay on the Causes of the Dry Rot in Buildings, 1803
It starts with a bruise: mottled blues and purples that stand stark against the too-pale skin of his neck. It’s more or less circular in shape, though slightly squashed and flattened, a little like an overripe tomato, and its edges are ill-defined, blurry. At its centre, a slight divot, about the size of his thumb.
He first catches sight of it while towelling off his hair in the tired bathroom of his latest motel room. It’s hard to make out at first in the spotted, steam-damp mirror - just a flash of colour amidst dull browns and beiges, almost lost in the flickering of the dim, yellow light above. But once he leans in closer and wipes away the layer of cool condensation with his towel, it’s unmissable.
Thin fingers move to trail the edge of it, searching for any pain, any tenderness, but come up empty. There is no scratch, no deeper wound, no sign of infection. The only peculiarity to be discovered is that divot, which, upon closer inspection, is faintly cool and soft to the touch. There’s a slight give to it, almost a sponginess, but nothing more.
A bruise is hardly surprising. They’re inevitable in this line of work, and God knows he’s acquired more than his fair share of them over the years, many far bigger and far more painful than this. Anyway, he hasn’t exactly been the picture of caution lately - even less so than usual.
The only reason he’s paused to give this one any thought at all is the location, where just two weeks prior, feral teeth sank deep and left him with what should have been (or what was, for all of an hour) a fatal wound.
But he has to remind himself that a bruise, no matter how, no matter where, is nothing compared to what Dean must be enduring right now.
Sam is no stranger to possession. Too many invaders now have taken their place inside of him, laid their claim, left their mark. He is intimately familiar with the feeling of foreign grace weaving itself with flesh, blood, marrow, mind; the all-consuming helplessness as you watch your hands guided by another; the emptiness that grows the longer they’re in there, stretching your skin, and the terrible, shameful longing you’re left with when they depart.
It is a whole-body violation. Ruination of the first degree.
And every second wasted poking at bruises is another second his brother is left to suffer exactly that.
The thought is enough to shake him from whatever trance he’s fallen into, the mark on his neck quickly losing all intrigue. By now, his hair is near enough dry, with only the occasional cold droplet falling off to run lazily down his spine. No use in hanging around the mirror any longer than he already has.
He steps out of the bathroom, leaving the towel lying wet on the side of the sink and the light still flickering behind him, and into the main room of the motel. A twin, of course; half habit, half now-thwarted hope that he’d have come back today with another body to occupy the spare bed.
It’s late. A wasted day has come and gone, leaving him with a soon-to-be wasted night. If he didn’t have to sleep, he wouldn’t. (Oftentimes, he mourns the few perks of soullessness he took for granted at the time.) But he’s no use to anyone without at least four hours under his belt, and even less use if he falls asleep at the wheel on the way back to the bunker tomorrow.
So, he lies down on his choice of bed, tries in vain to ignore the growing damp patch on the pillow behind his head and the phantom slick of blood dribbling down his neck, and is, in time, lulled into abstract dreams of gnawing and creaking and hollowed walls.
The bunker doesn’t feel like home at the moment.
Granted, it never has, not in the sense that most people know a home, but it’s always been somewhere consistent, solid. Close enough. A place he can rely on to be there, same as ever, when they need it - complete with a bed big enough for him to lie straight, a full-sized fridge (not one of them crappy, two-shelf ones found in motel kitchenettes) stocked full of food, and space to shut off, find rest, at the end of a busy day.
But even that, now, is gone.
All those once-empty bedrooms are filled up, sometimes two to a bed (though that’s more due to a war-induced need to protect, to keep close, rather than a lack of space). Food is cooked for the whole, the focus more on sustenance than palatability, very sparingly portioned. The war room, the library, even the smaller, tucked-away study rooms he once found refuge in, are nearly constantly inhabited. Hubs of activity everywhere he goes.
He rarely gets to make use of his big enough bed. When he’s even here at all, most nights are spent hunched over a desk, eyes burning from the blue light glare of his laptop and hands cramping from ceaseless typing. That, or sat in companionable silence at the kitchen table with Mom, sharing a secret bottle of vintage whiskey that they keep stashed away behind the cleaning supplies.
(He’ll never understand why the refugees have flocked to him. She’d make a far better leader than he.)
And the smell doesn’t help either.
It’s something new, only started coming to his attention in the last few days. A musty, stale smell that lingers in every room, reminiscent of damp laundry or a dusty, unaired attic. Or in some places, it’s closer to something earthy, edging on sweet, almost fermented. Like the spoils of a fruit tree left forgotten on the ground, wasp-bitten and mouldering.
The scent seems to sit heavier in the darkest corners of the bunker: the archives, the shooting range, the dungeon. Dean’s room, too, though he’s only been in there once, just to turn off the lights he left on, bin any rotting food he’d forgotten about, and lock the door securely behind him.
Unpleasant, but easily explained. More bodies, more smells. Their crappy dryer wasn’t built to handle such a massive, sudden influx of extra clothing, and these folks have gone so long without access to reliable running water and toiletries that self-care and grooming are no longer second nature - a luxury at best, and a distant memory at worst.
Nobody else seems to mind it, anyway. At least, nobody has bothered bringing it up to him.
(It’s only when he’s two days and two states away, and still wrinkling his nose at a persistent sour smell, that he realises it might not be the bunker at all).
There’s a tooth in the sink.
It’s a first molar from his upper jaw: slightly yellowed from time and excess coffee, specks of chalky plaque caked just before the roots, and a minor chip at the top of the crown from one too many knocks to the mouth. Not great, but no doubt in better condition than Dean’s are - were he here to compare.
The sight of it lying there in the bottom of his bedroom sink makes him more than a little queasy. It’s not just the tooth itself, but the coagulated mixture of toothpaste, spit, and blood which coats it. It’s thick and foamy, with little sticky bubbles that pop when he breathes too close, and is coloured the most unsettling shade of bubblegum pink.
Truthfully, he saw this coming. For days now, there has been a strange numbness in his jaw, mostly inoffensive and easy to ignore, but accompanied occasionally by a shifting of his teeth, as if suddenly too small for his gums. He’s never lost a tooth before, not naturally, at least, and so had no frame of reference for what was to come - yet somehow, this time, he knew this was different to the usual salt wash and painkiller affair.
But still, no amount of expectation can truly stifle the shock that wells when faced with the actuality.
Grimacing, he rolls up his sleeve. It’s too big to drain away, unfortunately, and the last thing he wants is to keep it sitting there, so the sooner he can get the job done and bin it - get it out of sight, out of mind - the better. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, reminds himself that no matter how gross this is, he’s dealt with much worse, and reaches in.
The foam is slimy, viscous, and slicks his fingers in a way that makes him think they’ll never feel clean again. When he pulls the tooth from its resting place, a ribbon of bloody spittle rises with it, clinging on, refusing to let go. It dangles, swinging back and forth, as he holds the tooth up closer for inspection.
It’s funny. You never realise quite how big your teeth are until they’re pinned between your fingertips. Nor how fragile they are, so springy and yielding, like old upholstery foam or the centre of a week-old loaf of bread.
Wait. That can’t be right, surely.
Brows furrowed, he applies firmer pressure to the tooth, squashing it between thumb and forefinger, and it gives in all too easily. His tooth just crumbles. The yellow-tinged ivory coating cracks to reveal dozens of tiny, reddish-brown splinters, which fall back down and hit the sink with a patter of muted tinks. They slide down its porcelain walls and adhere to the sickly paste.
Huh. That’s not ideal. Distantly, he notices a weakness in his knees, a cool sweat breaking out on his forehead. He stares down, eyes stock-still, brain stalling, and chews absentmindedly on his grimy fingernail until jagged and raw.
But at least it makes for easier cleanup. One run of the tap and all evidence is gone, good as new - save for the fleshy gap in the back of his mouth.
(He prods it with his tongue and tastes mint, metal and moss.)
At the end of the day, it’s only one tooth.
He’s already missing something far more important.
That bruise isn’t just a bruise anymore.
He can’t be sure when the shift happened, when it turned from some trifling smudge to this.
Honestly, he hasn’t paid it any mind since that night in the motel - days ago, now. He’s had no reason to. There’s been no change in sensation, no sudden pain - still that dull, lifeless nothing. Barely there. And it isn’t like he’s been spending much time in front of mirrors; has been avoiding them, if anything, in an effort to play ignorant to his diminishing condition.
But earlier this morning, while changing into a fresh shirt (for the first time in two days - an improvement, if you can believe it), he’d felt something strange brush his fingers as he adjusted his collar. Again, no pain, no tenderness, but something soft and yielding, almost damp to the touch. So he walked over the mirror, curious, and that’s where he’s stayed since. Just looking.
It’s a similar shape - that same squashed-tomato round, blurry and indistinct - but that’s where the similarities end.
For one, it’s bigger. What was once a bruise the size of a golf ball now takes up the majority of the left side of his neck, crowding his throat and inching ever closer towards his jaw, his collarbone. And it’s no longer coloured those pale blues and purples, but instead has taken on a greenish-brown hue, yellowed around the edges and speckled with tiny flakes of black.
He runs his fingers over it, and the flesh wrinkles and pulls, thin as onion membrane. It’s softer, too, like there's nothing at all beneath, no sinew or fat or muscle. The unblemished skin surrounding it has changed as well, turned almost leathery and tough.
The most concerning difference, though, is that divot. Not much bigger, but darker now, deeper, as if collapsing in on itself. White speckles dot the centre, tiny and round, just barely visible. Almost like the fall of ashes, or the first hint of winter snow.
He feels as though he’s seen this before; recalls forgotten apples in the bottom of a backpack, the walls of long-abandoned homes.
He swallows, bites his lip. He knows what he has to do now. There’s no avoiding it.
He takes his forefinger and presses gingerly into that divot, with a little force at first, then more, and more. It gives under the pressure, skin caving effortlessly, like butter, and soon enough, he is knuckle deep in his neck.
It’s the strangest sensation. He’s felt a person’s insides before - his own, even - but this doesn’t resemble those experiences in the slightest. He’s all… mush inside.
He wriggles his finger painlessly and finds that it’s a little like wading through mud - thick but formless, giving. Where should be defined musculature and a tangle of vessels and glands, is just a wet, dense sludge. Occasionally, he stumbles across pockets of something light and fluffy, cottony soft. It’s almost pleasant.
His whole finger is in there before he reaches bone, but it takes him a moment to realise that’s what he’s struck. Like his tooth, it’s woody and weak, splitting under his touch.
When he’s had enough and finally pulls it out, his finger emerges covered in thick mucus, dusted with floury spores, and smelling of yeast and ancient earth.
He thinks that maybe he should be more disgusted than he is. Any normal person would have vomited by now, passed out, or at the very least called for help.
It’s just- He’s already wasted so much time on this.
His phone has been pinging every other minute for the last half hour, his messages no doubt filled to the brim with the other hunters checking in and seeking advice and requesting backup. Most of it’s got to be urgent, time-sensitive. And then there’s the shadows he sees under the crack in his door, folks anxiously waiting to accost him about one of countless possible issues: the pantry is empty and they need to do a grocery run, they’ve run out of meds in the infirmary, they need to organise a meeting.
He’d promised Jack, too, that he’d train with him this morning. He’s been neglecting him lately, passing him off to Cas or Bobby - too much on his plate already to spend time with the people he cares about. It’s not right, how little he’s been there for him, considering what he’s going through. Kid’s probably all kitted up and twiddling his thumbs in the gym right now, wondering what the hell is keeping him this time.
Whatever’s going on is concerning, yeah, and gross and unnatural and whatever. But it isn't that urgent. He’s still alive and functioning, well enough to do his part. That’s what matters.
He can circle back to this later once the more important stuff is done.
For today, he opts for a turtleneck.
So, Lucifer brought him back wrong. That’s all this can be, the only logical explanation. It’s so obvious, really, now he’s realised.
What reason would he have had not to? Sure, he was a gift, a peace offering, but with what Lucifer had in mind, there was no need for that to last forever. He and Jack were meant to be off in the stars by now, all his toys and presents left behind, forgotten, unwanted, because he had something better - his dad.
Probably figured he’d save a little extra grace, do a half job, bring back the important bit, the soul, enough to keep the lights on, and leave all else to decay alongside it.
He wishes he could feel shocked, or surprised, or even angry. But he isn’t. Because yes, he was brought back wrong, but when has he ever been brought back right?
He still has a scar on his lower back, pink and waxy, from his first death at Cold Oak, all those years ago; still feels the ache of phantom twin bullets in his chest; still hears the harsh whipping of wind through his hair from when he fell, and fell, and fell. Shit, he was brought back with an angel in him once, and God knows how that can fuck you up.
If anything, all he feels is resigned. Of course it wouldn’t be so simple - not for him, and especially not at Lucifer’s hands.
Rowena once told them, in a voice rife with anxious frustration and eyes he’d seen in his mirror, that he’s never gone - and she was right. Even now, in death, he has found a way to stay present.
He is a family home, passed down through generations. All Lucifer did was boot up the generator and cover rotting walls with a fresh lick of paint before handing Jack the key, with no expectation that he’d ever take up residence.
There is no mould growing on Nick, and Sam knows this for certain because he has to wash him.
Twice a week, or thereabouts, Sam heads down to the dungeon with a bucket of lukewarm water and a sponge. It feels wrong, almost, keeping him in there - a miserable, lonely, windowless place - but they keep it nice, at least. He has a bed, a dresser, a lamp. No handcuffs. He isn’t locked in either, because they don’t need to. It’s not like he does a whole lot of moving.
It’s a better setup than Sam’s had himself sometimes.
He flicks on the lights and clenches his crumbling teeth and undresses the man who lies there, drowned in Sam’s hand-me-down jeans and shirt. He starts with the face first, partially to get it over with, but mostly because that’s just what you’re meant to do - cleanest areas first, work your way down. Extra care is taken when he flips his limp body over, when he treats the barely-healing wound in his side, when he needs to scrub under his flaccid dick.
It’s a clinical process, practised and detached. It has to be.
Sam wonders, looking down at the blackened fingertips and sallow hands which hold the sponge, if he’s making him dirtier than he started. Spreading whatever sickness Lucifer passed down to him, sowing spores and waterlogging flesh. But someone needs to do the job, and it’s clear no one else is willing. Save for Mary and Cas, who check on him only when they have no other choice, he’s the only person who comes down here.
Most of the time, Nick’s asleep through this. It’s worse when he’s not.
There’s another layer of uncomfortability added to the whole experience when he has those empty, passive eyes staring at him as he works, as if critiquing his performance. Or when he moans and writhes, from pain or fear or most likely both, and Sam has no choice but to hush him gently, to offer weak comfort, because he can’t finish the job if he’s fidgeting.
It’s even harder when he’s lucid - which is becoming a more regular occurrence with each passing day, for better or worse - and offers up meek, meaningless pleasantries and wry commentary as Sam tends to his feet. A voice and scene so familiar, but an inflection which isn’t at all.
It feels too much like a schoolyard game; playing pretend that Nick’s whole body doesn't shake with the effort of sitting up, that Sam’s hands aren’t shaking, that there isn't a devil’s trap under them and a houseful of abhorring hunters above.
He knows it’s not right. Not fair. This isn’t Lucifer any more than Sam is, and if anyone should harbour sympathy for the man, it’s him. They both said yes: Nick’s once, ill-informed, irrevocable; Sam’s many and coerced, uttered broken and mournful in the darkest recesses of the Cage.
But Nick groans, and Sam freezes, sponge dripping and breath bated.
Knowing doesn’t help anything.
Mercifully - and he hates himself for thinking like this - Nick doesn't wake up, not today. Instead, he continues to lie there, dead to the world, limp and pliable, nothing more than a too-big shell to house a soul that shouldn’t still be burning.
He tries to keep his head quiet while doing this, a perfectly controlled nothingness learned through years of necessity, but the longer he goes without Dean, the more alive Nick seems to get, the further the rot progresses, he finds it hard to keep this up.
More often than not, when the nothing becomes something, his only thought is: Will Dean end up like this, too?
Only that train of thought makes him depressed, useless, and he’ll consider giving up and running out before the water has even gone cold, so he has to shut it down before it spirals, and the next best fixation his head can come up with is mould.
Likelihood is that Nick isn’t rotting because he just didn't do anything to piss Lucifer off.
He was a weak vessel in the beginning, sure, nothing more than a placeholder, but he became something more permanent, something even better, brought back especially for him. An empty thing that sat quietly, didn't fight back, didn’t claw at the bars of its enclosure. Everything Lucifer wanted him to be.
He’s messed up from it all, but no more than anyone else would be after all that. Nothing about Nick’s condition feels malicious, intentional. A small act of gratitude for years of service.
But he also wonders if maybe it’s because he burned. Maybe there was something bad sown in, a parting gift, a piece of him, that didn't survive the heat. Lucifer died a supernova, hung above their heads, halfway to the heavens, in a blaze of holy fire, blisteringly hot and dazzlingly bright. No mould could have survived that; it’s a miracle Nick did.
Sam often thinks about burning. About ritual purification and self-immolation. About a good and clean end, the easy way out. Like mother, like son.
But he can’t, not yet. There’s still work to do.
He finishes up. Dries off Nick’s dripping limbs and redresses him in fresh clothes, refills his jug of water and takes away yesterday’s plate of uneaten food, murmurs a soft prayer and turns off the light. (Nick prefers the dark. It’s one of the few things he’s specifically requested, and Sam’s certain he knows why. They’re more alike than he likes to admit.)
As he’s shutting the door, he hears Nick whisper something in his sleep. It’s quiet and agonised and yearning, a plea to the lost half of himself.
And he thinks, no, maybe it’s still in there. Maybe he’s just got a different kind of rot.
Day by day, hour by hour, the mould claims more of his flesh. No longer is it just a bruise or a patch, but a near full-body network of interlocking organisms.
It has extended up past his throat, begun encroaching on his jaw, his face. Those tiny white snowdrops at the centre of the divot - more a crater now, concave and ill-healed - have multiplied and spread, coating his whole neck in a fine snowfall. Under his beard, patchy and wiry, the hollows of his cheeks have sunk even deeper, as if dissolved and eaten away by hungry fungi. And as of this morning, he can feel something with wings wriggling behind his eye.
His chest, too, has now been breached. Splotches of blues, greens, and smoky teals wrap tight around his torso, some velvety smooth, some delicate and fuzzy. It’s like a living patchwork blanket thrown over his shoulders, or a zen garden, left untended for decades, the once-tidy and meticulously cared-for stones and mounds now carpeted in moss.
He wonders what the condition of his skin is like underneath, if there’s any left at all.
His legs will be next. It’s already reaching towards them. He caught, just the other day, the smallest patch of black mould forming at his heel. A cluster of little black spots, all hazy blacks and greys. Drops of ink in water.
There's a strange beauty to it all. A peculiar interest.
He supposes he’s always found beauty in the oddest places. He thought the same of the angels when they fell; comets of flaming feathers hurtling down to earth, made glowing and radiant through his failing eyes as he lay, dirt-covered and defeated, on the ground outside that church.
Jess, too. He remembers so clearly that split second of awe and enamourment as he stared up at her on the ceiling - before it registered to him that she shouldn’t have been up there at all. Even now, so many years later, when her bloodied, burning corpse visits him in dreams, he can’t help but soak up the sight of her. (He always feels filthy when he wakes.)
And Lucifer, his true face, both beautiful and repulsive in equal measure.
Anyway, all this to say, it’s getting harder to ignore.
But never impossible.
Somebody should have noticed by now.
Not that he wants them to - the opposite, in fact - but it’s well past the point of hiding.
Clothes can’t cover it all anymore. He layers and layers, dons coats, scarves, gloves, whatever he can get his hands on, practically mummifies himself, but still, it finds a way through, discovers some gap left uncovered.
One day, when the dripping and goop became unbearable, fabric stuck too close to skin for comfort, he forwent his usual long-sleeves and overshirt in an attempt to air it out, let it breathe. He walked through the bunker bare-armed, neck exposed, everything on show, and nobody mentioned a thing. Didn't even spare him a second glance, not unless they needed to ask him a question about this world’s monsters, discuss leads and probe for updates, alert him to yet another issue that needs to be fixed. But even then, there was no recognition on their faces, no acknowledgement of the rot.
Shower drains have been clogged by his thinning hair, his dead skin, his unending shed of velvet. Once-white towels are left forever stained by globs of black and green. The walls of every room he passes grow darker and dingier each day, paint bubbling and foundations sinking, the air thick with spores and burdened with the scent of decay.
When he wakes, he finds himself attached to the bed sheets, glued tight by stringy filaments. It’s getting harder to get up every day.
Even earlier this morning, in a meeting of everyone - what’s left of his family, his friends, and all those people who somehow see a chief in him - he fell into a violent coughing fit which ended in a chunk of slime mould splattering onto the map table. It made it all the way to Africa by the time the meeting was up, and left a sticky, white trail in its wake.
Disgusting, messy, so obviously wrong - and all anyone did was wordlessly hand him a tissue.
It’s probably for the best, though.
No reason for everyone else to get tangled up in his own mess, not when they’ve all got plenty of their own to worry about. They’re just like him, he thinks; it’s not that they don't see it, it’s that they know where the priorities lie.
There’s a real lead now, courtesy of Jo: Duluth. Something strong, solid, for the first time in weeks, a spot of hope. This will be it, he can feel it.
They’ll get Dean back, chuck Michael out for good, and then.
Then he can rest.
The church itself is dim, overgrown, but the light shining from behind the now-open door is fiery and warm, and he can’t be sure if the backlit figure approaching is Dean or Michael, but either way, it’s damn good to see that face.
“Sammy,” the man pants, head hung low, body collapsed against the ceiling beam. “It's me.”
A hat hangs loose in his weak grip, threatening to fall, and he’s dressed so fine, so perfectly sophisticated, he looks incongruous in this beat-up, derelict building. It doesn't suit him; that body’s built for henleys and blue jeans, not a peacoat and suit tie. His voice is rasping and thick with a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion - but God, it’s still his voice.
Maybe it’s desperation, but he feels inclined to believe him.
He staggers forward, boot squelching with each step, the sound loud and obnoxious in the near-silence. (He doesn’t take it off anymore. Not to shower, not to sleep. Inside is a mess, dank and sopping wet, and he’s afraid that if he does, he’ll see that there’s nothing of his foot left at all.)
Mary and Bobby follow close behind, light-footed and apprehensive, far more cautious than he. They hang back as Sam draws closer and offers his arm towards Dean, whose hands, he sees now, are trembling from exhaustion, his whole body listing even further forward.
Dean takes the offer, grips tight as he can, while Sam helps slowly lower him to the ground. He doesn’t recoil at the pulpiness of the arm he’s holding, which he must feel, even through his three layers; nor does he flinch at the stench of death that wafts through his gaping, toothless mouth. He just slumps, chest heaving, looking up at them with haunted eyes.
Sam hears himself talking, hears the others, too. Dean’s back, for real, that’s him. Finally.
But now he’s saying He just left, and I don’t know, and he’s so clearly, visibly unwell in a manner that makes Sam’s palms sweat, stomach churn. More than he’s felt in weeks.
Because it means it's not over. They’ve got him back, but it’s not done, never done. There’s still- Oh, God, there’s still so much to be done. He’s never going to- He can’t keep-
That not-bruise is now not-neck, just a fetid, gaping hole. Its edges are dry, crusty, and blackened like sunburnt leather, and past them lies a mass of slime and rotten flesh. It’s oozing and oil-slick, thick like dark molasses. Clear, pungent liquid drips slowly from the wound and falls to a puddle at his feet. Every step forward slips. Something has laid its tiny, fragile eggs in the hollows of his exposed collarbone, and a hundred little legs are marching along his trachea.
This is what he was made for: hosting foreign life. Maybe that’s what Lucifer had in mind all along. Not punishment, not negligence, but a reminder of his purpose.
He shifts, and something catches his eye. Deep down inside of him, somewhere beneath the translucent gunk, he swears he can see the faintest glow - like sunlight through a chapel’s stained glass. It’s captivating.
He knows he shouldn’t do what he’s about to - there are more important things with which to occupy his mind than himself - but he can’t just let this one go.
So he stares down at his chest and pulls. It comes away so easily, completely effortless. Ribbons and patches and mounds of every colour fall to the floor beside him as he carves his way to the centre with what’s left of his hands.
This should hurt, but it doesn’t, not in the slightest. That numbness, that cool, damp nothing, permeates every inch of him now. He can’t feel anything at all.
It takes some digging, but he gets there: whole chest open and exposed.
Inside, he is a web of hyphal strands: rusts and smuts, mildews and moulds. A whole kingdom encompassed within him.
Gone are his heart, his lungs, replaced by bursts of grey-white cotton candy with dew drop tips. Blue and sage coloured fluff fills his cavities like insulation. Globs of gummy, earwax-yellow mould hang off hollow, wood-rotted bones, and twisting ropes of hemitrichia wind their way through, inching along every decaying surface.
Hardly human, more mould than man.
But there, right in the centre. Do you see it?
Tucked away, blanketed in clouds of spores, is a ball of light. Resplendent blue, brighter than the morning sun. It shines through the sludge and netting, sends rays out past driftwood ribs, bathes the whole room in its glow.
Still, somehow, after everything, his soul persists.
He raises his hand, moves towards it. For what, he’s not sure. To hold close to that light, see if he can detect any tingle, any warmth, anything? To cradle it in his arms, to hug it and rock it and whisper soft reassurances? Or to rip it out and shatter it, to let himself rest, once and for all.
He wraps his hand around it, holds tight and firm, and-
A knock on the door. Three raps, heavy-handed. Just the way he always used to do it.
“Get a move on, Sam. Heading out in ten.”
His fingers slacken, but he doesn’t let go. There’s a choice here: to stay or go, to surrender or fight, peace or duty.
He buttons up his shirt.
He is a leader, a brother, an empty vessel.
He is a family home, passed down through generations.
He is a rotting sack of flesh wrapped around an unremitting soul, and there is still so much work to do.