Mori

Short neo-gothic horror story

I woke to his hands at the base of my neck. Those wide, hard thumbs lined and gnarled and festering with time, brusque with the abrasion of decades long sunk before I breathed. I repulse you, his touch seemed to say in the dark. I repulse you, and that is your punishment. I am the molten gold poured into the mouth of your greed.