Necroarium

And just like that, I’m conscious again—no light to welcome me, no song to soften the return. No need to adjust my eyes; they’ve stayed open, still searching. I take in the surroundings through what little sight I have left. The world wears a thin, scarlet veil, my vision deteriorating with each flicker of awareness.

I make out the outline of trees in the distance. We’re trekking down a road—desolate, or maybe just unfamiliar. Hard to say how long it’s been since I was last awake.

I try to take stock. I can’t touch or move, but I feel the weight of each limb, like distant anchors pulling me down. My teeth rattle precariously in their sockets with every step. I try to measure the gait. Both feet seem attached—how securely, I don’t know. My arms move at their own rhythm, swinging without care for my intentions. I glimpse a hand, just at the edge of my vision, swiping past like a stranger’s limb. My head wobbles on my neck, unsteady but holding firm on my shoulders. For now.

A squirrel darts into view and quickly disappears into the adjacent forest. We respond—mouth opens, a raspy hiccup sputtering out. I think about stopping, calling it back, anything. Of course, we keep moving. I wish I knew what drives us forward. Not that knowing would do me any good, but at least I’d have a foothold—some hint of reason, a way to predict the next lurch of these unsteady limbs.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m a sick pet, dragged along by a cruel owner toward some inevitable fate. Except I am the pet. I am the leash. I am the owner. But our fate? That, I do not know. I suppose I’ll find out.

A sharp sound breaks the silence, somewhere to the left—far but distinct. I try to will us in that direction, desperate for anything familiar, anything that might offer a clue to where we are. Or what we’re doing. For once, my body obeys. A harsh left pulls us off the road, where the world narrows into jagged silhouettes—trees crowding together, swaying as we stumble through. We seem capable of only one pace: slow. I wonder how many Redbulls it would take to kick these legs into a power walk.

Even though the forest is red-glazed, I hungrily take in the view. Simple joys are a luxury now, and I hold them close to my heart—whether it still beats or not. I can’t be sure. A gentle wind dances through the trees, rustling the branches and tempting the leaves to detach their stems. A few leaves do drift down, kissing the yellow, orange, and red lichen on the forest floor. I think about that song from Pocahontas, ‘Colors of the Wind.’ Something about wolves and singing with the mountains—about understanding things you can’t see. I hum the words in my head, though I’ve forgotten most of them. I do remember the first line, though: ‘You think I’m an ignorant savage.’ How fitting. Maybe I am.

My thoughts are interrupted by a quiet but grating moan to my right. Without permission, our head jerks to the side—bobbling on its axis. It’s one of them. I still recoil inwardly from the sight—a parasite steering the spoiled meat of what used to be human. It comes diagonally through the trees, slightly ahead of us. Somehow, it too seems drawn to the distant noise, answering a call that demands its attention.

This one must be a few weeks old. Its lower jaw dangles loosely against its throat, swaying grotesquely with each jagged step. What’s left of its lips hang in ragged strips, curling back from receding gums. The few cracked teeth are caked with dried viscera and filth. A few strands of hair still cling to the back of its scalp—a redhead, maybe. The eyes are haunting. A marbled film of gray and white veils the corneas, while tendrils of rot creep inward from the sclera, threatening to swallow them whole and leave the creature blind to the world it mindlessly roams.

The spine is warped, forcing the shoulder blades to jut forward, making the whole body seem as though it's collapsing inward. Scoliosis is not pretty—my health teacher warned me. It’s naked from the waist down, the remnants of its pants tangled around its ankles, adding to its stilted shuffle. Crushed and peeling toes jut out from under the soiled fabric. Even now, I want to look away—to grant the body a dignity it no longer has. But, as always, I watch on.

Several fingers are gone, leaving jagged pieces of bone that look like claws. The others are broken, twisted at odd angles, some dangling by thin, stubborn strips of skin. Hair, fur, blood, and shit cling to the mangled flesh, mirroring the filth between its teeth.

Our feet slow—dragging, hesitant—but they don’t stop. Why would they? My mouth opens again, and we cough raggedly at each other, a grim acknowledgment. Then, we move on. 

Another noise cuts through the forest’s uneasy peace. It feels distant—maybe miles away, maybe closer. Hard to tell. Either way, it seems we’re heading straight for it. I can’t quite make out what the sound is but it’s almost familiar.

We trudge onward for what feels like several hours before the thing beside us collapses. A sharp snap—one bone or several—echoes through the quiet. It stumbles, then folds in on itself, falling face-first into the moss. My body doesn’t even bother to turn. Just a glimpse: gnarled arms clawing at the dirt, dragging the thing forward in jerking, blind motions until it slips out of my sight. I hear it whine somewhere behind us, the sound trailing off as we keep moving. It doesn’t matter, I think. There was no one inside. 

Eventually, we reach a large, ominous clearing. At its center, like a blackened volcano, rises a hill of charred masses. It’s a familiar sight by now, but the dread hasn’t faded. As we shuffle within a hundred yards, I can almost make out the shapes of indivi—

My mind sinks, slow and weightless, into the void. Oblivion is a sweet comfort, and I take it gladly—not that I have a choice. I wonder how many choices I have left.