Coconut Grove you pray for my failure

if no one joins this in a couple days i'll switch it to a read only and archive it.

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: ehem. a little bit of cannibalism.

scarab's life since the cave-in the cavern he kept his menagerie in has been in rapid flashes of consciousness: the encompassing dark, the ire of the earth as it trembled and roared like an angry titan. the roar of a new beast: rushing foamy sea water that burned at his lungs, his body being tossed to and fro like a rag doll caught in the vicious and unforgiving push and pull of the waves as it lured him out of the tunnels and into the sea. a flash of wet sand beneath him and the knowledge that he should get up but he's so tired and his body aches: from being battered around by the waves and from coughing up copious amounts of seawater and its never long before he falls unconscious again.

the next he wakes at sea again, clinging to a ...tree — he thinks but the salt water sting his eyes and they're still so heavy — his petrified sandpiper ( miraculously he hasn't dropped it, refusing to let go of it until he was wretching up seawater ) still clutched stubbornly within his grasp — and he falls under again.

the next time he wakes up, he's wedged uncomfortably between two soggy somethings — wolves, he realizes, groggily putting together that the sea has deposited him on solid land and that the bodies he is wedged between are stiff in rigor mortis. he's weak. he can barely lift his head. he has enough of his wits about him to find the irony of this. his menagerie had been largely made up of dead things and though death eluded him — sparing him only barely — it continues to provide for him.

he lets go of his prize, tucking his petrified sandpiper against his chest and sniffs at the larger of the two, drawing his tongue against his lips. his mouth is so dry — though he's wretched and coughed up enough salt water to make him wonder how it has not yet killed him. and he's hungry.

death taketh and death giveth. death bows to me. it is my servant and my lever.

scarab takes a testing bite of the larger wolf, wishing that the flesh were more supple. alas, he takes small bites, trying to curb the ferocious desire to fill his aching stomach with as much meat as he could. he doesn't know how long it's been since he's eaten and he knows he will have to take it slow. he chews slowly, analyzing all the ways that this is different than eating anything he's ever eaten before.

the worst part, perhaps, is that the fact that he's eating his own ilk does not even faze him in the slightest.

thread title lyrics: tony montana — agust d