I kissed you and you liked it. Your jaws fell apart under my lips. One hand slip across the mold growing on your occipital lobe. The other runs down your crumbling spine, stinging as a spider's fangs sink into my thumb. It's a brown recluse, the best kind. Its legs squirm as I pick it up in my mouth, and it bites my tongue as I swallow it down. I kiss you again, passionately, lovingly, your rough calcium bones shattering under the force of my affection. The spider and the worms I'd eaten earlier regurgitate onto your ribs. Heh, don't look so sternum. You need to eat, too, after all.

When Glen speaks, his words always drip like acid in your ears. He laughs and the sound is sharp and painful, like spikes being drilled into your chest. Sometimes you shout at him to leave you alone, arguing and fighting for the barest inch of ground. Other times, most times, you curl up and cry as he erodes your will with verbal lashes.

When you venture out of your house--and this you rarely do, save for work--he's always there with you, jeering at the people around you. His insults never are clever, either. He spits vitriol at every single human you dare to look at. So you never look at anyone for long.

When Nico speaks, you can almost feel the weight of each word. He never speaks much. He often watches as Glen tears you apart, letting you fight your own battles. To make you stronger, he says, and you know he's not the altruistic type. But when you're on the edge of the void and you're staring into the cold emptiness, he'll yank you back with stern kindness.

Once, you allow Nico to take control for a time. He's gentle about it, and he follows the terms of the agreement. As soon as he's not needed, he retreats and you're in control again. But he has one condition. Don't tell anyone, he says. If you do, he threatens to hurt you.

You argue with Nico, unwilling to be manipulated by him. He becomes furious. You've never seen him angry before. His words hammer into you and leave you shaking, but you still hold your ground, experienced in fighting from all the times he stood by and allowed Glen to rip you into shreds. Nico finally relents, reasonable despite his harsh fury.

Glen gradually loses interest in you as you start to fight back more effectively. And Nico spends less and less time with you after the argument. You don't need him, though. Maybe it was a mercy that he never fought for you. You're not dependent on him. And he has other charges who require his company more than you do. Finally, you're free.

@wabisabi

AN: I have schizoaffective disorder, type depressive. It mostly manifests itself in auditory hallucinations who try to convince me they're spirits.

Corruption creeps through the ultraviolet glow of the river, making it fade to ripples of purple and even specks of blue. Mazan, guard and heal us. Alter this bitter karma. The chanted prayers rise through the heavy air, thick with desperate invokation. Forgive our sins, Ro. Remove your ire and turn away the face of your wrath.

A young Bloom kneels, distraught as her mother caresses her for the last time with a wilting leaf-tangled vine. The mother's ruffled torso of pink carnation petals falls slowly apart as the pestilence claims her. Even her legs, once strong roots, and her head, a bloom of red-tipped white, have begun to decay.

Around them, the dead and dying lay, voiceless in their agony as the glow of the life-water inside them darkens and turns to poison. The few still living refuse to cease from their prayers, imbuing their thoughts with all the power they can spare.

Their healing stones have failed to revive or even mitigate the damage caused by the deadly curse. Each Bloom becomes ill, unable to avoid the fate of their clanmates. And in the course of a single day, the sick Blooms weakens, brightness fading, until they fall apart and decay in a matter of minutes.

The young ones survive longer, a small mercy. The eldest of them sends an invokation to one last deity. Kor'zefir, spirit of hatred and war, hear our cries and give us vengeance for our mothers.

A week later, the children have all died from the pestilence eleven miles away from their village. They decayed into thick grass, surrounding the source of the curse, their duty finished. Vengeance has been meted out.

Sprouts eventually bloom from the fertile mounds of soil left by the dead. There's nobody left to share their story, but the testament to the clan's struggle lives on in the brilliant glowing blossoms.