Monthly Archives: March 2025

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 13: The Deluge

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly awoke to a searing pain in her abdomen. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, before the events of the past few weeks came rushing back. The rings, the mottled skin, the fleshy growths around her waist…

Groaning, Beverly tried to sit up, only to collapse back onto the bed as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She looked down at her body and let out a choked sob at what she saw.

The growths on her waist had continued to lengthen, now resembling thick, ropy tentacles that coiled around her midsection. They pulsed and twitched with a life of their own, as if straining to break free from her skin.

But even more alarming was the state of her legs. They looked thin and atrophied, the muscles wasted away to almost nothing. As Beverly tried to stand, she found that they could no longer support her weight, buckling uselessly beneath her.

Panic rose in her throat as she clawed at the sheets, trying to pull herself upright. Her skin felt tight and itchy, flaking off in large, papery sheets as she moved. The sensation was maddening, an all-consuming discomfort that left her feeling raw and exposed.

Desperate for some kind of relief, Beverly began to crawl towards the bathroom, dragging her useless legs behind her. Each movement sent shockwaves of pain through her body, but she gritted her teeth and pushed on, driven by an instinctive need for water.

When she finally reached the bathtub, Beverly hauled herself over the edge with trembling arms. She fumbled with the faucet, her fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, until finally, blessedly, water began to flow.

As the tub filled, Beverly slumped against the cool porcelain, her eyes fluttering closed. The water rose around her, lapping at her skin like a balm, soothing the incessant itching and burning.

Time seemed to blur and stretch as Beverly drifted in and out of consciousness. The world narrowed to the sensation of the water, the gentle slosh of it against the sides of the tub, the way it buoyed her aching body.

She was only dimly aware of the sound of the water overflowing, spilling onto the bathroom floor in a steady stream. It mingled with the pounding in her head, the rush of blood in her ears, until all of it faded into a distant, meaningless hum.

Beverly had no idea how long she lay there, hovering on the edge of oblivion. But gradually, another sound began to penetrate the haze – a sharp, insistent knocking, coming from the direction of her front door.

She tried to call out, to respond in some way, but her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth, her words slurred and unintelligible. The knocking grew louder, more urgent, until finally, Beverly heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.

Footsteps echoed through the apartment, accompanied by voices – unfamiliar at first, then shockingly, blessedly recognizable. Angele. Joanna. They were here. They had come for her.

But as the bathroom door swung open, as the concerned faces of the building management and her beloved friends came into view, Beverly felt a surge of shame and horror so intense it stole the breath from her lungs.

“Don’t look at me!” she screamed, her voice raw and ragged. “Don’t look at me!”

She cowered in the tub, trying to cover herself, to hide the grotesque changes that had ravaged her body. But it was too late. They had seen. They knew.

Beverly was only vaguely aware of the flurry of activity that followed – the gasps of shock, the hurried phone calls, the arrival of the EMTs. She slipped in and out of consciousness as they lifted her from the tub, her waterlogged tentacles trailing behind her like macabre streamers.

As she was strapped onto the gurney, Beverly’s gaze locked with Angele’s. In her friend’s eyes, she saw a swirl of emotions – fear, confusion, but also something else. Something that looked almost like…recognition. Understanding.

It was a fleeting impression, gone as quickly as it had come. But as Beverly was wheeled out of the apartment, as the world began to fade away once more, she clung to that look, to the faint glimmer of hope it represented.

Not. The. End.

The Saddest Girl Ever To Hold A Glass of Lemonade

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The first time Judith Engel made lemonade, she was five years old, standing on a stool in her mother’s sunlit kitchen. The scent of fresh lemons and sugar hung in the air, as familiar and comforting as her mother’s voice.

“You have to put your heart into it,” her mother said, her hands guiding Judith’s small ones as they squeezed juice from the lemons. “That’s the secret.”

Judith didn’t understand what her mother meant, but she nodded seriously. She wanted nothing more than to make her mother proud. When the lemonade turned out too sour, her mother only smiled and kissed the top of her head. “You’ll get it someday,” she said, her voice warm as sunlight.

Someday never came. Her mother’s laughter faded from the house, leaving behind an aching silence that Judith couldn’t fill, no matter how many glasses of lemonade she made.

Now, at nine years old, Judith stood behind a makeshift lemonade stand in front of her house. The wooden sign, painted with uneven letters, read: 25 cents. A jar of coins sat on the table, the product of neighbors’ polite purchases. They sipped the lemonade, their faces carefully neutral, offering gentle words of encouragement Judith barely heard.

The lemonade wasn’t very good. She knew that. But it was all she had left of her late mother, and she made it every day, hoping that somehow, she could pour her grief into the pitcher and sweeten it into something better.

One afternoon, as the sleepy sun blushed orange, beginning its daily routine of tucking itself into the horizon, and shadows stretched across the street, Judith stirred a new batch of lemonade. Her thoughts drifted to her mother, the sound of her voice, the way she would hum as she worked in the kitchen. Tears welled in Judith’s eyes, and before she could stop them, they spilled over, falling into the pitcher. She wiped her face quickly, embarrassed, though no one was there to see.

When the next customer, an elderly woman from two houses down, took a sip, her eyes widened. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“Oh, my,” the woman whispered, clutching the cup as if it were something precious. “It’s like I can feel it all over again. My Henry…” Her voice broke, and she handed Judith a dollar before hurrying away, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Judith stared after her, the dollar bill crumpled in her hand. She tasted the lemonade herself, and for a moment, it was as if her mother’s absence swelled inside her, sharp and all-consuming. But when she set the glass down, she felt lighter, as though the weight of her grief had shifted. She didn’t understand it, but she knew one thing: the lemonade had changed.

Word spread quickly. The neighbors came in droves, sipping the lemonade and leaving with red-rimmed eyes. They whispered about Judith’s stand, about how her lemonade could unearth old memories and long-buried sorrows. Some left generous tips; others lingered, thanking her softly before walking away.

Judith’s father noticed the change, too. He’d been a shadow of himself since her mother’s death, retreating into his armchair and barely speaking. But now, he watched the parade of visitors from the living room window, his face clouded with something Judith couldn’t name.

One evening, after the last customer had gone, the doorbell rang. Judith opened the door to find a man in a gray coat standing on the porch. He was tall and thin, with sharp features and eyes that seemed to see too much.

“Judith Engel?” he asked, his voice smooth and polite.

Judith nodded, gripping the doorframe.

“My name is Mr. Carrick. I’ve heard about your lemonade.” He glanced at the stand, now empty, and smiled faintly. “May I come in?”

Her father appeared behind her, his voice firm. “What do you want?”

“To help,” Mr. Carrick said, his gaze flicking between them. “Your daughter has a remarkable gift. One that others like her have learned to refine.”

Judith stepped back, her heart pounding. “Others like me?”

Mr. Carrick nodded. “People who can take emotions—grief, pain, even joy—and distill them into something tangible. Something transformative. It’s rare, but not unheard of.”

Her father’s face darkened. “She’s just a child. Leave her alone.”

But Mr. Carrick’s attention was on Judith. “You’ve already felt it, haven’t you? The way the sadness lifts, just a little, when you pour it into the lemonade. Imagine what you could do with guidance. You could help people, Judith. Not just your neighbors, but so many others.”

Judith hesitated. She thought of the strangers who came to her stand, the way they left lighter, as though she’d taken something heavy from them. She thought of her mother’s words: You have to put your heart into it.

Her father’s voice cut through her thoughts. “She doesn’t need your help. Get out.”

Mr. Carrick sighed and reached into his coat, pulling out a small glass vial. Inside was a liquid the color of sunlight, swirling gently as though alive. “This is what’s possible,” he said, setting the vial on the table. “Think about it, Judith. When you’re ready, I’ll find you.”

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. Judith and her father stood in silence, staring at the vial. The room felt heavier, the air thick with unspoken questions.

Finally, her father spoke, his voice low and weary. “You don’t need him. Or anyone else. You’re my daughter, and that’s enough.”

Judith picked up the vial, its warmth surprising against her skin. She thought of her mother, of the lemonade, of the way the sadness seemed to flow from her and into the pitcher. She thought of the neighbors, their tears, their gratitude. And she wondered: Was this enough? Or was there more she could do?

That night, as she lay in bed, the vial sat on her nightstand, catching the moonlight. Judith closed her eyes, the echo of her mother’s voice in her ears. You’ll get it someday.

Someday, she promised herself, she would.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 12: Inconclusive Results and New Developments

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly sat in the doctor’s office, her heart pounding as she waited for the results of her medical tests. She had hoped that the battery of bloodwork, skin scrapings, and imaging would provide some answers, some explanation for the strange changes happening to her body.

But as Dr. Patel entered the room, her expression grave, Beverly felt her hopes sinking.

“I’m afraid the tests were inconclusive, Ms. Anderson,” Dr. Patel said, settling into the chair across from Beverly. “We couldn’t find any clear cause for your symptoms. No known allergies, no autoimmune markers, no signs of infection.”

Beverly’s hands clenched in her lap, the raised rings on her fingers feeling more prominent than ever. “So what does that mean? What’s happening to me?”

Dr. Patel sighed, her eyes sympathetic. “At this point, our best option is to do a skin biopsy. We’ll take a small sample of the affected tissue and examine it under a microscope. That should give us more information about what’s going on at a cellular level.”

Beverly nodded numbly, trying to process the news. A part of her had been hoping for a clear diagnosis, a name for the condition that was turning her body into a stranger. But another part of her feared what the biopsy might reveal, what new horrors might be lurking beneath her skin.

As she left the doctor’s office, Beverly couldn’t shake the sense of dread that clung to her like a second skin. And in the days that followed, her fears only grew as her physical symptoms continued to worsen.

The rings on her skin, once flat and discolored, now rose from her flesh like strange, fleshy ridges. They itched constantly, a maddening sensation that left Beverly clawing at her skin until it was raw and bleeding.

And then there was the mottling, the way her skin seemed to be changing color and texture before her very eyes. Patches of it took on a grayish, almost translucent hue, while other areas became rough and scaly, like the hide of some prehistoric creature.

But the most disturbing development came one morning when Beverly was getting dressed. As she pulled on her shirt, she felt a strange sensation around her waist, a tightness and pressure that made her gasp.

Looking down, Beverly’s eyes widened in horror at what she saw. Four small, fleshy nubs had sprouted from her skin, evenly spaced around her midsection. They were no more than an inch long, but they were unmistakably there, pulsing slightly with each beat of her heart.

Beverly’s mind reeled as she stared at the growths, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Were they some kind of tumor? A side effect of whatever was causing her other symptoms?

She thought of the biopsy, of the tiny piece of herself that would soon be under a microscope, dissected and analyzed. Would it hold the answers she so desperately needed? Or would it only reveal new depths of strangeness, new levels of aberration?

Beverly closed her eyes, fighting back the panic that threatened to engulf her. She felt like she was losing herself, like her very identity was being erased and rewritten by the changes happening to her body.

And yet, even in the midst of her fear and confusion, Beverly couldn’t shake the sense that there was something else at work, some greater purpose or meaning behind her transformation. It was a feeling that had been growing steadily over the past weeks, a whisper in the back of her mind that spoke of destiny and transcendence.

She ran her fingers over the raised rings and fleshy nubs that now adorned her skin, and as much as the changes terrified her, as much as she longed for a return to normalcy, Beverly couldn’t deny the strange, electric thrill that ran through her at the thought of what she might be becoming. It was a feeling that both exhilarated and terrified her, a dance on the edge of the unknown.

Not. The. End.

The Unchosen

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The air in Chiara’s apartment was heavy—dense with the weight of unspoken words and unshed tears. Dust motes danced in the shafts of pale light seeping through the curtains, casting everything in an ashen haze. The room felt alive in a way she couldn’t bear, even though it wasn’t. Two figures, shimmering like oil on water, lingered in the corners of her vision: Everett, seated in her worn armchair, stroking his translucent jaw in thoughtful repose, and Jasper, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal.

They had been the men she loved. And, because of her, the men she lost.

She hadn’t chosen between them—not when it mattered. Not when the storm came roaring off the coast, tearing the pier apart beneath their feet. Chiara had hesitated, caught between reaching for Everett’s calm hand and Jasper’s desperate grasp. That heartbeat of indecision had sealed their fates, the wood splintering under their weight, dragging them both into the icy depths.

Now, their faces followed her everywhere, fixed in the agony of their final moments: Everett’s melancholy eyes, filled with resignation, and Jasper’s sharp, defiant glare, burning with questions she could never answer.

For the first few weeks, she had convinced herself it was a punishment. She deserved this haunting, this eternal vigil. But what had once been guilt twisted into something far darker.

The visitations began benignly enough. Everett offered quiet observations, his soothing voice pointing out sunsets and shapes in the clouds. Jasper, in contrast, was all fire, urging her to take risks, criticizing her for wasting her potential.

Chiara tried to treat them like housemates. She spoke to them aloud, dividing her days between Everett’s measured advice and Jasper’s relentless passion. But ghosts were not housemates. They were echoes, fragments trapped in the amber of their unfinished lives. And the cracks began to show.

Their jealousy poisoned the air, subtle at first—a misplaced comment, a lingering look. But soon, arguments erupted over her choices, over her friends, over every detail of her life.

One night, Chiara came home from a disastrous date, her cheeks still burning with embarrassment. Jasper materialized first, leaning against the wall with a smirk.

“That guy was a joke,” he sneered. “You deserve someone who actually sees you.”

Everett appeared a moment later, shaking his head. “Or someone who doesn’t need to be fixed, Jasper. You can’t keep chasing damaged people just to feel useful.”

Chiara screamed into her pillow that night, their voices echoing in her skull.

Their presence began to seep into her work. Chiara was a writer—well, she had been before the haunting reduced her creativity to ash. Now, every word she typed felt wrong, hollow.

One evening, Everett hovered above her desk, peering over her shoulder.

“You’ve used that phrase twice already,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “Repetition dulls the impact.”

Jasper appeared beside him, rolling his spectral eyes. “What she needs is urgency, not your academic critiques. Tell her to write something that hurts.”

“Stop it!” Chiara snapped, shoving the laptop away. “I can’t think with both of you breathing down my neck—” She stopped, catching the irony of her words, but neither ghost laughed.

The room felt colder. The two men turned their gazes on each other, the air thickening with their mutual disdain. A low hum began to vibrate through the apartment as their emotions spiraled out of control.

The next day, Chiara woke to find the word failure scrawled across her bathroom mirror in condensation. She stumbled back, her heart pounding, as laughter echoed from somewhere unseen. Jasper’s laughter.

She snapped.

“This is my life!” she screamed into the empty apartment. “You’re dead! You don’t get to dictate what I do anymore!”

The ghosts appeared in unison, Everett’s face grim, Jasper’s alight with defiance.

“We’re not dictating,” Everett said. “We’re trying to save you.”

“Save me?” Chiara spat. “From what? From myself? You’re not here for me—you’re here because of your own unfinished business! You can’t let go, and now I’m paying the price!”

The air seemed to vibrate with their anger. Jasper’s form wavered, becoming jagged and wild, while Everett’s shimmered with an unsettling brightness. The apartment trembled under the weight of their conflict, the walls creaking as though the building itself might collapse.

Desperate, Chiara fled to the only place she could think of: the church. She hadn’t been there since the funerals, and the sight of the altar made her stomach churn.

Father Anton met her in his study, his brow furrowed as she recounted her story.

“They’re not just ghosts,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’re pieces of me. Pieces I can’t let go of.”

The priest nodded slowly. “Exorcism isn’t just about banishment. It’s about release. Are you ready to let them go, Chiara? Truly let them go?”

She wasn’t. But she didn’t have a choice.

The ritual was a harrowing thing. As Father Anton chanted, the air around them thickened, growing icy. Chiara could feel Everett and Jasper pulling at her, their spectral hands grasping at her soul.

“Chiara,” Everett whispered, his voice breaking. “Don’t do this. Please.”

“You’ll regret it,” Jasper snarled, his fiery intensity flickering like a dying flame.

Tears streamed down her face as she forced herself to speak. “I’m sorry. I loved you both. But I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep dying with you.”

With a final burst of light, the room fell silent.

Chiara collapsed to her knees, the weight in the air gone. For the first time in years, her apartment was still.

But the silence wasn’t peace. It was absence.

As she watched the first rays of dawn pierce the clouds, a loneliness she’d never known before settled over her, a stark contrast to the promise of the new day.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 11: Diagnosis/Isolation

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly sat on the examination table, her legs dangling over the edge, the crinkle of the paper gown sharp and grating in the sterile hush of the room. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, their cold glow leaching warmth from her skin. Her fingers twisted together in her lap—pale, trembling, and marked.

The red rings stared back at her, angry and swollen, as if burned into her flesh. They weren’t smooth like rashes or welts. The edges were raised in tiny, curling ridges, irregular and almost… organic.

She traced one absently, shuddering at the wrongness of it. The texture was off—not rough, not soft, but something in between, something yielding yet firm. It didn’t feel like her. Not anymore.

Rubbery. Alien.

The door creaked open, and Beverly flinched, pulling the flimsy paper gown tighter around herself.

Dr. Patel stepped in, clipboard in hand, her crisp white coat a contrast to the warmth in her smile. She was a reassuring presence—calm, collected, the kind of person who had seen it all before.

“So, Ms. Anderson,” Dr. Patel said, scanning the chart. “Tell me what’s been going on.”

Beverly swallowed, her throat dry. Slowly, she turned her hands palm-up, revealing the grotesque red rings.

“They started about a week ago,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “At first, just my hands and feet. But now…” She hesitated, then tugged up the hem of the gown, exposing her calves. The rings climbed her skin in irregular patterns, curling up her legs like invasive vines.

Dr. Patel frowned slightly, pulling on a pair of gloves. “May I?”

Beverly nodded, biting her lip as the doctor ran her fingertips over the raised edges of one of the rings.

The contact sent a ripple through her nerves—something between a shiver and a recoil. She twitched involuntarily, an unpleasant heat prickling under her skin.

“They itch, don’t they?” Dr. Patel asked, her voice calm but attentive.

Beverly let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Yes, but it’s more than that. My skin… it feels wrong. Rough, like rubber or plastic. And sometimes I swear—” She cut herself off, shaking her head.

“Swear what?” Dr. Patel prompted.

Beverly hesitated. “It doesn’t feel attached. Like my body is…” She clenched her jaw. Saying it out loud felt ridiculous. “Like it’s turning into something else.”

Dr. Patel’s pen scratched against the chart. “You say this started suddenly? No previous conditions—eczema, allergies, autoimmune issues?”

“No,” Beverly said firmly. “Nothing. It just… started.”

The doctor leaned back, studying her thoughtfully. “It could be a few things—lichen planus, granuloma annulare, or even an unusual autoimmune response. We’ll run some tests.”

Tests. A slow, twisting dread coiled in Beverly’s stomach. She had wanted immediate answers, something solid. Not this.

“I’m prescribing a topical corticosteroid cream for now,” Dr. Patel continued. “It should help with the inflammation and itching. But Beverly…” Her gaze softened. “I know this must be frightening. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Beverly nodded numbly. The words barely registered. A hollow reassurance, spoken through a thick pane of glass.

Back at her condo, Beverly stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at herself. She looked… wrong.

Her skin was pale, the rings stark against it like brands. Her once-lustrous hair hung limp around her face, and dark shadows rimmed her eyes. She barely recognized the woman in the glass.

With slow, careful movements, she uncapped the tube of cream and spread it over her arms and legs. The coolness was a brief relief—but the moment she stopped, the itching returned worse. It crawled beneath her skin, relentless, like something alive.

Her fingers twitched. She clenched them into fists. It was getting worse.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She didn’t need to look to know it was Angele or Joanna. They had been calling, texting, reaching out all week. But Beverly had ignored every attempt. How could she face them now, after what she had done?

She sank onto the couch, pulling a blanket around herself like armor. The room was dark except for the flickering glow of the TV, its muted images blending into meaningless shapes. Finally, in desperation, she called her mother.

“Beverly, honey? What’s wrong?” Her mother’s voice was warm, familiar—a lifeline.

Beverly clutched the phone tighter. “Mom… is there anything in our family medical history I should know about? Allergies, diseases, anything strange?”

A pause. “Not that I can think of. Why? Are you feeling sick?”

“No,” Beverly lied. “Just a work thing. A medical questionnaire.”

Her mother hummed thoughtfully. “Well, your great-aunt Mildred had rheumatoid arthritis. And one of your cousins is gluten-intolerant. But nothing unusual.”

Nothing that explained this.

“Mom,” she asked hesitantly, “was I… normal? When I was little?”

Her mother laughed softly. “Of course you were, sweetheart. You were a bright, happy little girl. Why would you ask that?”

Beverly opened her mouth, then closed it again. How could she explain the storm inside her? The fear, the shame, the certainty that something was deeply, irreversibly wrong?

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I guess I’m just feeling lost.”

Her mother’s tone softened. “Oh, honey. Everyone feels that way sometimes. But you’re my beautiful, perfect daughter. No matter what, I will always love you.”

Tears welled in Beverly’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “Thanks, Mom. I love you too.”

After the call, she curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest. The longing for comfort, for connection, was unbearable. She thought of Angele and Joanna, of their warmth and laughter, and the ache in her chest deepened. She had ruined everything. And it was getting worse.

She tried to sleep, but at some point, she woke with a start. The room was silent except for her own breathing. Something felt off.

She shifted beneath the blanket—and froze. Her arms… felt different. Slowly, she lifted her hand to the dim light of the TV. Her fingers looked longer. More flexible. The joints—had they moved?

She turned her hand over. Her skin shone faintly in the low light. Smooth. Slick. Like something that belonged in water.

A chill ran through her.

Beverly curled her fingers into a fist, pressing them against her chest as if trying to hold herself together.

She didn’t know what was happening to her. But she knew one thing for certain. This wasn’t going to stop.

It was only the beginning.

Not. The. End.

Mapping Vengeance

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The cerulean sun of Myxlos IV cast long, skeletal shadows over the petrified forest, the alien landscape both haunting and beautiful. Delaria stepped off the inter-dimensional transport and inhaled deeply. The air carried an electric tang, sharp and unfamiliar. She was here for solitude, to unravel the knots her doctoral defense had tied in her chest. Myxlos IV was her retreat, a place famed for its quiet and secrets older than memory.

Delaria wasn’t just a cartographer by trade. She considered herself a mapmaker of her own soul, charting her emotional landscapes through the lens of distant worlds. And if she were honest, she was running—from what, she hadn’t yet dared to name.

The hike was longer than anticipated, the fine, glass-like sand shifting under her boots. When she found the cave, it wasn’t marked on any maps. Its entrance was shrouded in shimmering, moss-like tendrils that moved faintly in the still air. Something about it pulled at her, an almost gravitational lure.

Inside, the temperature dropped sharply, and the air thickened with a scent like wet earth and ozone. The walls hummed faintly, a low vibration that settled into her chest. At the back of the cave, nestled in a bed of pulsating purple flora, lay skeletal remains. The bones were twisted, the proportions unsettling, like a grotesque marriage of plant and animal. Tendrils of moss clung to the ribcage, their tips alight with a soft, bioluminescent glow.

Then she saw it—a thumb-sized, opalescent creature resting in the cradle of the ribs. It pulsed gently, almost as if breathing. The scientist in her took over, curiosity overwhelming caution. She reached out, her fingers trembling.

When the creature moved, it was faster than her eyes could track. Pain lanced through her wrist as it burrowed under her skin. Delaria screamed, the sound swallowed by the cave’s oppressive silence.

The pain faded quickly, replaced by a disorienting rush of sensations. The cave blurred and sharpened, colors deepening and shimmering in impossible hues. Delaria staggered, her mind swimming. When her vision cleared, a voice—or something like a voice—pressed into her thoughts.

I am V’tharr.

The words weren’t spoken but felt, an intrusive force brushing against the edges of her mind. Delaria clutched her wrist, where a faintly glowing scar now marked her skin.

“What… what did you do to me?” Her voice cracked, trembling with fear and anger.

You are my vessel. The voice carried no malice, only a cold certainty. Images flooded her mind: a landscape bathed in red light, a towering figure with three segmented limbs, and the sickening crunch of bone. Justice must be served.

Delaria’s limbs moved without her consent. Her body, now imbued with an alien strength, obeyed V’tharr’s will. She screamed inside her own mind, clawing at the mental barrier, but the symbiote’s control was absolute. Her thoughts tangled with its purpose—a singular, burning need for vengeance.

Days passed in a haze of forced marches and whispered commands. V’tharr navigated the Myxlosian terrain with an unsettling familiarity, guiding Delaria’s body with predatory grace. She became a passenger in her own flesh, her autonomy stripped away.

The three-limbed figure haunted V’tharr’s memories, a hunter who had killed V’tharr’s previous host to harvest its marrow. Delaria felt the symbiote’s grief, its rage—a storm of emotion that threatened to drown her. But she also felt its desperation, its guilt for dragging her into this.

As they closed in on the hunter’s trail, Delaria fought harder, slamming her mind against the walls of V’tharr’s control. For fleeting moments, she broke through, regaining her body. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a communicator, but the symbiote seized her again, wrenching her limbs into submission.

“Please,” she begged, her voice a whisper in the vast wilderness. “You don’t have to do this.”

It is justice. But there was hesitation now, a flicker of doubt that Delaria seized upon.

When they found the hunter, the scene was surreal—a clearing bathed in the cerulean sun’s light, the air crackling with tension. The hunter turned, its segmented limbs flexing, a blade-like appendage gleaming in its grasp.

V’tharr unleashed Delaria’s body with terrifying precision, driving her into a brutal dance of combat. Each movement was fluid, lethal, and utterly foreign to her. Blood sprayed as the hunter faltered, its weapon clattering to the ground.

Finish it, V’tharr commanded.

But Delaria resisted, her will surging against the symbiote’s. “This isn’t justice,” she spat, her voice breaking with desperation. “This is revenge.”

For the first time, V’tharr hesitated. The connection between them wavered, and Delaria seized the moment. She drove the blade into the ground, not the hunter, who fled into the shadows.

The symbiote withdrew, its tendrils unraveling from her mind. Delaria collapsed, gasping for air as the weight of what she had been forced to witness and do crashed over her. The glow on her wrist faded, leaving a faint, iridescent scar.

“You used me,” she whispered into the stillness, her voice hollow. “You stole from me.”

I am sorry. The words were soft, almost mournful, and then V’tharr was gone.

Delaria sat in the clearing, the cerulean sun sinking below the horizon. The map of her soul was forever altered, the landscape scarred by alien rage and her own helplessness. She knew she could never return to who she was before. The universe was no longer a place of discovery and wonder—it was a place of violence, secrets, and profound, inescapable connections.

And yet, as she traced the scar on her wrist, she felt something new: a determination to chart these uncharted depths, to understand what had happened, and to ensure no one else would ever lose themselves to another’s justice.

The map wasn’t finished. It never would be.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 10: Actions and Reactions

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly found herself adrift in the cozy ambiance of Angele and Joanna’s living room, a realm where laughter danced freely through the air and the warmth of companionship seemed to permeate every corner. The space, illuminated by the soft, golden glow of string lights artfully arranged by Joanna, felt like a haven from the storm of her own emotions. Lavender-scented candles flickered gently on the coffee table, their light casting playful shadows on the walls and infusing the air with a calming, fragrant haze.

Angele and Joanna moved through the space with effortless grace, their laughter a melody that harmonized with the clink of dishes and the rustle of conversation. But for Beverly, every sound seemed muffled, every moment surreal, as though she were a spectator in her own life. Beneath the veneer of idyllic gathering, she wrestled with a tumult of unsaid words, her meticulously rehearsed confessions dissolving into the ether.

Angele, with an empathy as intuitive as her smile was gentle, approached Beverly and sat beside her on the couch. Her presence was a balm, her luminous green eyes searching Beverly’s face with quiet concern. “Is everything okay, Bev? You seem a little… distant tonight.” Her voice, soft and soothing, carried the weight of genuine care.

In those verdant depths, Beverly saw her fears reflected back at her but also an unwavering kindness that beckoned her to abandon the safety of silence. Her mouth opened, a string of words tumbling forward in her mind, but none made it past her lips. Instead, compelled by a force greater than fear, she leaned into the space between them, her lips finding Angele’s in a kiss that was both a question and an answer.

The world narrowed to the warmth of Angele’s lips, the faint taste of wine mingling with the softness of her skin. Beverly’s heart thundered, and for a brief, suspended moment, it felt as though everything had fallen into place. But reality, with its cruel penchant for timing, intruded abruptly. Angele withdrew, her expression a canvas of shock and confusion, her hands hovering near Beverly’s shoulders as if unsure whether to push away or pull closer.

“I… I’m so sorry,” Beverly faltered, retreating into the shell of her anxieties. Her voice cracked under the weight of regret. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Joanna, who had been setting down a tray of drinks, froze mid-step. Her dark eyes darted between the two women, her face a mixture of surprise and concern. “Beverly, wait—”

But Beverly was already retreating, propelled by a maelstrom of embarrassment and self-reproach. The sound of Angele calling after her rang in her ears, but it only spurred her legs to move faster. She stumbled out of the condo, her vision blurring with unshed tears.

By the time Beverly reached her own place, her breath was coming in ragged gasps. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, her trembling hands pressed to the cool wood. Her heart was a wild drumbeat, her mind a cacophony of conflicting thoughts.

What had she done? Had she just ruined everything, destroyed the most meaningful friendship she’d ever had, all because she couldn’t control her own emotions?

Sliding down the door to the floor, Beverly buried her face in her hands. She felt like she was coming apart at the seams, her carefully constructed life unraveling before her eyes.

She kissed a woman. For the first time in her life, she had crossed that invisible line, acted on feelings she had been trying so hard to ignore. And now, in the aftermath, Beverly felt like her entire world had been turned upside down.

It was one thing to fantasize about Angele and Joanna, to imagine what it might be like to hold them, touch them, to be with them in a way that went beyond friendship. But actually doing it—feeling the warmth of Angele’s breath, the way her lips trembled against Beverly’s—was something else entirely. It was electric, exhilarating… and terrifying.

Beverly considered herself straight. She had dated men, loved a few of them. The idea of being attracted to a woman, of wanting to kiss and touch and be with another female, had never even crossed her mind. Until Angele. Until Joanna. Until now.

And now, with a single impulsive action, Beverly had shattered the illusion of her own certainty and crossed a line she could never uncross. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, like everything she had ever known about herself was suddenly called into question.

But even worse than the confusion and self-doubt was the crushing weight of rejection. The look on Angele’s face—shock, confusion, and something unreadable—was seared into Beverly’s mind, a painful reminder of her own foolishness.

How could she have been so reckless? So stupid? How could she have risked everything—thrown away the most important friendship of her life—for a fleeting impulse?

Beverly’s chest heaved with silent sobs, her tears hot and relentless. As she curled into herself, a prickling sensation began to creep across her skin, starting in the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands. It was faint at first, like the brush of tiny needles, but it quickly grew into a persistent itch.

Frowning, Beverly held up her hands, squinting at them in the dim light of the living room. At first, they looked normal. But as she turned them over, her breath caught. Faint, red rings were forming on her palms, thin and perfectly circular. The skin beneath them tingled with an unnatural warmth.

A chill ran down her spine. Were they hives? Some kind of allergic reaction to the stress? Or something worse?

Her mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. Ringworm, eczema, a rare autoimmune disorder… The red rings seemed to mock her, a physical manifestation of the chaos within. As her tears subsided, her focus sharpened on the patterns spreading across her skin. She couldn’t shake the sensation that this was more than a coincidence.

Her breath hitched as the faint red lines began to pulse, the rhythm matching the frantic beat of her heart.

Beverly hugged her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. She had never felt so alone, so lost in the sea of her own making. She knew she should call someone, but the thought of explaining what had happened was too much to bear. For now, all she could do was sit in the darkness, nursing her broken heart and shattered illusions, and pray that somehow, someday, she would find a way to put the pieces back together.

Even if she knew, deep down, that nothing would ever be the same again.

Not. The. End.

The Lumina

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The recycled air of the Kestrel Customs checkpoint tasted like stale ozone and bureaucracy, clinging to the back of Jax Varis’ throat as he stood at his post. His uniform, still stiff from the replicator’s press, chafed under his arms, a daily reminder that this was far from where he thought he’d be. The Academy had trained him for diplomacy, for first contact, for situations that tested the limits of human resilience and ingenuity. Yet here he was, watching luggage scans flicker on holoscreens, his dreams collecting dust like the corners of the checkpoint’s low ceiling.

He had just finished clearing a businessman with an overpacked cryo-briefcase when he noticed her in line. She stood out immediately, not for her appearance, but for the stillness that surrounded her. The queue was a river of impatience—mutters, shifting feet, and side-glances—but she stood calm, silent, her gaze fixed ahead.

Her skin was the color of desert sand, etched with the wear of interstellar travel. Her hair fell in uneven strands, and her cracked lips hinted at dehydration. But it was her eyes—deep, obsidian pools that swallowed the harsh fluorescence of the terminal—that made Jax’s stomach twist. She carried a worn canvas backpack, its edges frayed, as though it had seen more of the universe than most starships.

Jax adjusted his scanner as she stepped forward, his voice steady but louder than he intended. “Ma’am, may I inspect your bag?”

She turned to him, her gaze sharp enough to cut through his poorly maintained confidence. “Of course,” she said, her voice soft and low, like a melody hummed to oneself.

The bag opened with a faint creak. Nestled among folded cloth and survival pouches was a tarnished thermal flask. Jax’s gut tightened. It wasn’t just the flask’s age or the strange hum his scanner emitted as it passed over it. It was the faint luminescence that seemed to pulse from within, like a heartbeat trapped in steel.

“Step aside, please,” Jax said, masking his unease with protocol. He motioned her to a secondary inspection station.

She complied without hesitation, but something about her composure felt wrong. Not defiant—accepting. She knew what was coming.

Jax’s gloved hands gripped the flask, its surface cool to the touch. A faint crackling sound filled the air as he unlatched the seal. Inside, suspended in a viscous amber liquid, was a creature unlike anything he had ever seen. It resembled a jellyfish, but its tentacles branched like crystalline trees, each tip glowing faintly. The light inside the flask flared, and for a moment, Jax thought he saw images in its shimmer—a distant skyline, a spiral galaxy, faces frozen in time.

His scanner buzzed and went dead. Error codes flashed on the screen.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.

“It’s called a Lumina,” she said, her fingers twitching toward the flask before retreating. “A thought made real. A memory given form.”

He frowned. “A memory of what?”

“A civilization older than your species,” she said, her voice carrying an ache that made Jax’s throat dry. “Their stars have burned out. Their worlds are dust. This is all that remains of them.”

Jax stared at the Lumina, its glow pulsing in rhythm with his racing heart. He imagined what would happen if he followed protocol. The labs would dissect it, catalog it, and in doing so, destroy it. It would become data in a database—useful, maybe, but dead. His duty, drilled into him since the Academy, demanded compliance. But his instincts screamed that this was something more. Something sacred.

“I can’t let you leave with this,” Jax said, his voice faltering.

The woman didn’t argue. She didn’t plead. She only looked at him, her expression hollow. “I’ve been carrying it for five years,” she said. “From station to station, system to system. Running from people like you. Do you know what they do to it in your labs? They don’t study it—they break it. They break it.” Her voice cracked, the calm giving way to desperation. “Please. If it dies, they die.”

The weight of her words settled in Jax’s chest like lead. He thought of his family—his sister’s bright smile, his mother’s proud eyes. They’d always told him he’d do great things, make the universe better. But what did that mean now? Following orders, or breaking them to protect something he barely understood?

A sharp alarm cut through the air. Security officers approached, their boots heavy on the polished floor. Jax’s supervisor, a man whose bark was as unforgiving as his bite, stepped into view. “Problem, Officer Varis?” he barked.

Jax’s grip tightened on the flask. His pulse thundered in his ears. He could hand it over, pass the burden on, and live with the guilt. Or he could trust his instincts, jeopardizing everything he’d built.

“No problem, sir,” Jax said, slipping the flask back into the woman’s bag. “Routine scan error.”

The supervisor narrowed his eyes. “We’ll need to check her, then.”

Jax stepped in front of her, blocking the supervisor’s path. “I’ve cleared her,” he said, his voice firm. “She’s free to go.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The supervisor stared at him, the air thick with unspoken consequences. Finally, he nodded. “Fine. Move on.”

The woman slipped past without a word, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Jax watched her go, her figure swallowed by the crowd.

Hours later, when his shift ended, Jax sat alone in the staff locker room. The holo-news displayed a headline about a fugitive escaping Kestrel Customs. He didn’t need to read it to know who they meant.

His hands trembled as he pulled out the small data chip with his family’s photo. He’d made his choice. Whether it was the right one, he didn’t know. But the uniform on his shoulders no longer felt so heavy.

For a brief shining moment he wasn’t just an officer. He was a guardian of something greater. And that, he thought, was a start.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 9: Missed Connections

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

In the subsequent days after her heartfelt revelation to Samantha, Beverly found herself ensnared in a tempest of anticipation and trepidation. It was as if she were a stringed instrument, each nerve within her tightened to a pitch, resonating with the slightest touch. She understood the path that lay before her, a route carved out by her burgeoning feelings, yet each attempt to traverse it saw her courage scattering like leaves in the wind.

Inviting Angele and Joanna to dinner had been a decision born of determination. As she maneuvered around her kitchen, the simmering sauce before her a mirror to the bubbling anxiety within, Beverly rehearsed the confession locked within her heart. Yet, the closer the moment of revelation drew, the more entangled her thoughts became, a knotted mess from which no clear thread could be drawn.

Angele and Joanna’s arrival, cloaked in their effortless grace, seemed to dissolve Beverly’s resolve into wisps of smoke. Their laughter, a melody that had become the sweetest refrain in Beverly’s life, filled the spaces of her home, leaving little room for the weight of her confession.

“I… I actually wanted to talk to you both about something,” Beverly ventured, her voice a fragile whisper against the clink of wine glasses and the warmth of shared smiles. Her heart was a wild creature within her chest, pounding against the confines of her ribcage with a desperate intensity.

The exchange of looks between Angele and Joanna, a silent communication laced with curiosity and support, was a balm to Beverly’s frayed edges.

“Of course, Bev,” Joanna’s voice was a soft encouragement, a beacon in the tumultuous seas of Beverly’s emotions. “You know you can tell us anything.”

Yet, as Beverly teetered on the precipice of her confession, a knock at the door shattered the moment, a rude intrusion that sent her heart skittering into the recesses of her throat.

“Beverly, dear, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I just had a new stove installed, and I have no idea how to work it, and now I smell gas. Could you come take a look?” Mrs. Goldstein, her neighbor, stood as a harbinger of interruption, her plea for assistance pulling Beverly away from the sanctuary of her imminent confession.

Beverly glanced back at the table, where Angele and Joanna were watching with concerned expressions. “I… of course, Mrs. Goldstein. Just give me one moment.”

She hurried back to the table, an apology already forming on her lips. “I’m so sorry, I need to go help Mrs. Goldstein with something. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Angele and Joanna nodded understandingly, but Beverly could see the curiosity still lingering in their eyes. She cursed herself for not speaking up sooner, for letting the moment slip away.

The shift in atmosphere upon Beverly’s return was palpable, the thread of intimacy frayed by the interruption. Angele’s laughter and Joanna’s vibrant storytelling filled the air, a reminder of the missed opportunity that hung heavy around Beverly.

The remainder of the evening unfolded like a play in which Beverly was a spectator rather than a participant. Each attempt to steer the conversation back to the shores of her confession was thwarted by the ebb and flow of dialogue, leaving her stranded in the silence of her unspoken words.

As Angele and Joanna departed, their warm embraces were a reminder of the confession that remained caged within Beverly’s heart. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promised, a vow to herself as much as to them. “There’s… there’s something I really need to talk to you about.”

The enigmatic exchange of glances between them offered no solace to Beverly’s tumultuous heart. Closing the door behind them, she was left to confront the reflections of her hesitation, a silent echo of the words that had gone unsaid.

In the solitude of her home, Beverly faced the reality of her situation. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow, there would be no interruptions, no excuses, no holding back.

Not. The. End.