EMBRACE

A creep.
Agonisingly slow, yet tangibly quick.
The shadows continue to creep onto the night, to grow upon a wasted, scared body lying invisibly cloaked in its own smugness at a certain forbidden corner.
Darkness is supposed to hide the dark and blur the gloomy, into a state of an almost non-existence, into the security of a fallacy. But there are a few gruesome myths that darkness inflates and accentuates, like shadows. And that is why, despite the darkness, they continue to grow conspicuously upon and inside him, where they evanesce into another far-more powerful, resident darkness.
The creep continues to tantalise.
While shadows percolate the pores in time, and darknesses pour into each other, the body writhes in the pain of rejection and oblivion. The forbidden corner is both uninhabited and overpopulated, both aloof and chattering and currently it is intruded by blood, alien molecules and a bereavement of speech.
And the deafeningly silent noises of a certain pair of approaching footsteps.
They didn't kill him, because they couldn't kill what really was him. What they wanted lies between his two legs, actually beneath, but he wasn't going to 'speak up' even if his throat wasn't this alien to voice. His personal darkness was too powerful. Weakened by an invisible yet allied force, all they managed was to cut off his eleven 'fingers' and throw him in this forbidden corner alone where shadows and darknesses grew into his disgraceful existence of both the present and the past that now creeps upon him. Wounds, visible and invisible, suck an undeserved life out; time seeks its revenge and sucks his self-esteem.
There's noone, yet now the approaching footsteps are almost-audibly close.
He seeks redemption, he seeks escape. But life has to be just to him; actions need to be paid back for.
Death comes, but minus an embrace.