tommyinnit oneshots

continuation!.. 😗

If the roles were reversed:

Tommy's pov:

For as long as Tommy has known, he can smell the stench of foul death creased upon him. Blood, rot. When he had fought for his own life, when he fought against whom he was not afraid of; violence, death. The blood soaked suits drifting in the wind, plunging his nose into a stupor of despair. The screams and blood flowing like a stream, yelps and tears seeping out of his eyes. He could feel the shock waves of the others fear, the worry and concern.

Yet he couldn’t help but drool. He couldn’t help but be hungry, his stomach growling. His hands shaken and pulsing, mouth watering. The fantasy of flesh falling apart through his teeth plagued his dreams, he would wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night; his heart sputtering in his ears.
What was that?
What the fuck was that?
He glanced around nervously before dropping down into the pile of his comrades.
It was just a dream.
A nightmare.

He likes to lie to himself.

-

A dangling light bulb hung from a makeshift ceiling—which was just a bunch of planks built in a square pattern, unending. Tommy cough, rasping for air. His mind cannot help but drift back to the stench of rot, violence, death. He can feel blood seeping in his teeth, his tastebuds savoring it. He couldn't help but gag, because that's all he could do.

He yelled and scream and shout, the blood streaming raw in his throat; a madman glaring back at him with a gleam of satisfaction as the walls closed into him. Suffocating him, killing him. The flesh has never seemed so good in his eyes, but he stopped before he could drool.

The walls close in. Tommy choked on the dust.

Tommy's heart pumps, and the bones rattle like a snake; he pound on the door shut by a thousand bolts. Every bang getting louder, he frantically sobs until he cannot anymore. Tommys hands shake until they are blistered and bleeding and blood coated the trapdoor. He wished he was kinder, he wished he was better; nicer, at least quieter—he wished he was smart. At least before he died, enclosed by caging walls; at least. At least. Blood pooled at the knuckles of his, the blisters and dirt coated underneath his nails. He wished. He wished he was normal. At least once.

But he didn't die, but he watches as another opens the trap door and the light from the hanging bulb illuminates him; but he feels relief swelled in his cursed heart. Rot, it rots inside him.

He likes to ignore things.

-

Tommy can feel the heart pulsing in his hand. Beating, alive and beating. Thudding like an old man under floorboards who shall be dead. He was dead. He is dead. Why do you feel it beat? Why does the heart beat? Tommy stared at it longer than he should. It stops beating. It’s cold. It’s so cold. Tommy shudders, the snow melting into the fabric of his pants. Yet he does not care, blood coated him, tangled in his messy and unbrushed blondish hair, the blood soaked his arms up to his elbow; the deep shades of red smudged on all of his clothes.

He ate him.

He ate him.

And he was delicious. Savored every taste.
Tommy lied to himself,

he ignored himself.

Tommy swallowed down the tense horrifying screams like human flesh, like livers and guts and bone marrow; sucked dry, squelching and writhing in his teeth like bugs. Hallucination or not. Tommy devour the heart of the dead puppeteer like a ravenous wolf, like a hungry pack of dogs, sharp teeth—howl, bark and bite; pitiful little puppets yet the strings have snapped. He can still taste the insides of his heart, the pipe and the red pouring out and dripping into his mouth.

Tommy ate him like a monster.

Maybe he is a monster. Maybe he was never human in the first place, a monster in plain sight- a marionette who acted like a human, a convincing act. Tommy is not human. He was never human. He will never be human.

That’s just how it is. The marionette with the puppeteer’s human heart lodged in its teeth.

Tommy sobs and cried, rip his face off- howl in shaking hands.

Tommy ate him.

Tommy ate his tongue to understand his words.

Tommy ate his hands to know the punch of the fist.

Tommy ate his eyes to see himself how he saw him.

Tommy ate his mind to know what he thought about.

Tommy ate him, it’s macabre. It’s gruesome. His mouth is filled with maggots and rotting flesh. It’s an abyss of death and decay.

He is sixteen years old.

Tommy are a hound dog.

Tommy is an abhorrence.

Tommy ate him, he became part of him. He appreciate and savor him like a feasted object.

Tommy ate him, and he was delicious.

And if dreams friends wondered where he was, Tommy would smile and say he doesn't know all the whole his stomach is growling for more.

Shorter but oh well. 🤷🏼‍♀️