Anthony Franco sat on his bed quietly, looking down at the tattered, carpeted floor. His shoulders slumped as the corpse of his grandmother lay beside him in the bed.
"You're too old for this, Grandma. Too old." He pulled his pants up to his waist and fastened his belt and pulled the comforter over his naked grandmother, tucking her in for the night. He kissed her cold, wrinkled forehead and whispered "goodbye," a tear slowly seeping from his left eye (he lost the other eye in the war.).
Franco quickly unlatched the window and slid the pane of glass upwards, to open the window. He climbed to the outdoors and hung his legs over the windowsill. Pushing off of the side of the house and spreading his arms as if they were wings, he flew off into the night. Looking down at the dimly lit world of his small American hometown, he swooped downwards into a field, and landed completely flat on the grass. He burrowed into the dirt, wriggling as if he were a worm to propel himself. He crawled deeper and deeper into the earthen soil, dirtying his fine cotton clothing.
Eventually, Franco reached the water table and dove deep into the underground pool. He swam like a mermaid, gracefully and with elegance that matched no actual creature. The water was murky and dark, so Franco closed his eyes to avoid becoming distracted by the particles in the water. He swam upwards to grasp a mouthful of air, and noticed with his ocular echolocation, a well that led up to the surface. Just was he was looking for, he leapt out of the water and into the cavern, wriggling to the surface of the earth.
He emerged through the stone wall of the well, the collection bucket clanking into his noggin as he attempted to crawl onto the grass. The bucket caught on his shoe, pulling it off and dropping the brown loafer deep into the depths of the well. Franco stumbled onto dry land, one shoe missing to match his absent eye, and his clothes wet and full of muck. He growled into the night, kicking off the other shoe and stripping himself from his dirtied clothing. He pounded his fists on his chest, and searched for the moon, which was waned to a point where it did not show in the cloudy autumn sky. He sighed and moaned in agony, his fingernails tracing deep lines in the flesh of his chest. His skin broke after several drags of his nails, clawing open his pectorals and dripping blood onto the ground.
He lied down in the puddle of blood scooping up handfuls of the sticky liquid, and pouring it over his head, chanting Latin sayings as he once again swore himself to the Dark Lord. His eye turned a deep black, his mouth emitting a screech not recognizable to any trained human ear. Smoke swirled within his iris, and leaked from his pupil, curling over the wounds in his chest and healing them instantly, stitches appearing where the gashes once were.
His eye surrounding him in a shroud of smoke, ashes and fire, he laid back beneath the cloudy night and covered himself in a thicker layer of his own sticky life blood. Chanting quietly and with passion, he allowed himself to rise out of the bubbling cloud of smoke, shutting his eye so no more could be released and interrupt his ceremony. With a loud shriek form Franco, the clouds parted to show a tiny sliver of moonlight peeking through the earth's shadow. His body was dragged upwards as if a rope were tied about his waist, as if his central force was being summoned by the moon and by the heavens.
His figure began to spin, slowly at first, and then frantically as it neared the approaching line of clouds. Franco's breathing hastened as he recited a short prayer, chanting for his breath to be quieted. Franco was not dead, but he was no longer breathing. it seemed as though his lips were sewn together. His heart pumped furiously as he rose at an ever-quickening pace, and both of his eyelids shot open in agony as each cell of blood felt to pulse and scrape at the inside of his body. His empty eye socket was black and cold, but with each moment the moonlight hit the tissue it festered more and more. Franco screamed through his sealed lips and begged to close his eye, begged the Lord to let him end the ceremony, but no amount of cerebral craving or desire would let the Dark Lord hear his silent prayers. His eye socket continued to bubble with pus and blood, dripping down into his hair and falling like raindrops onto the ground below.
The closer he got to the moon, the more apparent the small sliver of light really was. More light flooded into the flesh of where his eye once was, and he screamed through his lips as his face gushed with more fluid. His spinning was creating a circle of blood on the ground as the liquid fell, small spatters of blood forming together to create a large circle, Franco being the epicenter of the madness. Suddenly his eye gushed the remainder of the fluid it was meant to expel like a fire hose, and his eyelids shut once again. The relief was great, and Franco almost cried out in thanks to the Dark Lord. Franco's body began to spin in the opposite direction, and his body changed positions so that his arms and legs were splayed into the air above him, appearing as if a rope were tied to his midsections and was pulling him towards the center of the circle he had just created.
His body thumped into the wet grass, a sigh of relief emitting from him as his lips parted for what felt like the first time. His chest heaved with a long breath, pulling at the skin that was stitched together. More blood seeped from between the fibers of the stitches, pooling onto the already saturated ground. Franco slowly sat up and groaned as the stitches popped, letting his skin flap outwards and showing his muscles and ribcage. He let out a feral screech that allowed his eye to secrete more satanic smoke and curl over his shredded skin, immediately soothing the pain and fusing the jagged edges of his flesh to one another.
Franco stood slowly and kicked off the wet ground, ascending into the night. His skin was slick with blood, and it created a glimmer in the sky as the light from the upcoming town reflected on his crimson covering. He swooped down and clasped his hands together, preparing to dive into the window that allowed access to his apartment. His fists crashed through the iron bars and glass first, followed by tis head and shoulders. Like a child being born, Anthony crashed through his window and did a barrel roll onto the floor. He lay on his ragged carpet, heaving. Another layer of blood saturated the encrusted carpet, flowing from Franco's scraped body.
His dick screeched as his grandmother's corpse was flown across the room and her butthole landed on his penis.