2
Macbeth
Chicago, Illinois
Mezzanotteʼs Pizza Parlor
October 31st, 2014
Time: 4:10 AM
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He burned again.
Sitting in the empty Mezzanote pizza parlor, Macbethʼs heart jackhammered against his chest; thumping, pulsing, punching, as the cavity threatened to burst. New musks of skin rolled against his decaying gray corpse, and as he gripped the edge of the counter, his limbs cracked against the flesh and stretched it. Peeling back layers and piercing his veins and arteries. The beats grew more frantic, and soon, his body was chasing a heart-beat. Chasing a spark, labored breaths.
The fire rippled against his chest.
Letting out an agonized grunt, his golden chest slick with sweat, nails jutted from his fingertips. Long, barbed, talons bursting from clumps of blood. His body hissed, sizzling, and as he pressed into the counter – his back snapped, twisting and writhing against the crushed bones. His muscles knotted and convulsed against each other, tangled in a web of tears and slashes.
He didnʼt blink, didnʼt gasp in pain.
He just let the wood splinter his hands, the violent red shades of blood streak his hands, and the Chicago cold settle in. Shrieking against his temples, blood vessels bursted against the stark skin and blood flowed into his eyes; the sclera white, the pupils a light gray, all caked in a velvety, rich carmine color. The demon within his damned and abused body rose, slowly and steadily shedding its way out of his skin, and he was ready.
He was ready for his revenge.
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