by Eddie Borey
Below the makeshift tourniquet, his arm was purple and rotten, especially around the bite. He untied the belt—-no point anymore in pretending that it could help him. He could see his purple forearm throb at the new rush of blood. The liquid pressure flowing into his arm was enough to break the scabs on the bitemark. Through the ruptured scab-dam, three colors of filth (black, red, egg custard) dripped a Jackson Pollock on the white tile floor. When he felt neither relief nor pain at this, he knew that he was dying.
As if the maggot hadn’t been clue enough.
About the Author
Eddie has worked as a night shift as an EMT prior to becoming a screenwriter.
About the Narrator
Kris “KJ” Johnson is a husband, father, podcaster, gamer, wannabe writer, cat owner and geek dilettante.