Day 10.10: Motion, Motion..?


    The sound won’t leave me.


    Wet. Tearing. Slow, awful chewing. It’s still there. It never stopped. It never will. It’s inside my head, pressing against my skull, filling the cracks, eating away at me from the inside. Every step I take, it follows. A phantom noise that sticks to my skin, soaks into my bones. I blink, but I still see it. I swallow, but the taste lingers. I breathe, but the air is thick with the stench of rot.


    I keep walking. I don’t know how far. Doesn’t matter. Just away. Away from that thing, from the way it moved, from the way it didn’t stop, from the way it ate something that shouldn’t have been there. From the way it made me feel. Like I wasn’t real either. Like I was fading, piece by piece, like if I stopped moving, I’d just disappear into the rust and the dust and the cold.


    The wind howls through the junkyard, rattling through broken windows, whistling through hollow car frames. My boots crunch against scattered glass, every step too loud, too sharp. Shadows stretch long in the fading light, twisting around me, shifting with each breath. The air is thick with the scent of rust, of old oil, of something deeper, fouler. It clings to my clothes, soaks into my skin. The past, rotting away, refusing to be forgotten.


    I shake my head, hard, trying to clear it. My fingers tighten around the crowbar, my knuckles pale. I need to focus. I need to keep moving. But the noise—God, the noise—it’s still there. Scraping, slurping, wet and mindless. It shouldn’t be real. But it is. And it won’t let go.


    My legs shake. My hands shake. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts, too fast, too shallow. It feels like I’m choking on the air, like my own lungs are fighting against me. My chest is tight, my throat even tighter, like something is wrapped around me, squeezing, pressing, refusing to let go. My fingers clutch the crowbar like it’s my last connection to reality, like if I let go, I’ll come apart—piece by piece, crumbling into dust and rust and nothing.


    I keep walking. One step, then another. I don’t count. I don’t plan. I just move.


    The junkyard stretches on, endless in the dying light, a maze of twisted metal and shattered glass. Every car is a grave, every shadow is waiting to swallow me. The wind whispers through broken windows, moaning through hollowed-out frames, rattling doors that will never open again. My boots crunch against the ground, shards of glass and gravel grinding underfoot, too loud, too sharp. The air is thick with old oil, with rust, with something deeper, fouler, something that clings to the back of my throat, something I can’t swallow down.


    This place used to mean something. These cars used to belong to someone. Someone who drove them, who sat in them, who lived before all this. But now they’re empty. Abandoned. Just like everything else.


    I used to belong somewhere too.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    The thought sinks its teeth into me, deep and cold. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, sharp and coppery, grounding me for just a second. Keep moving. Keep breathing. Don’t stop. Don’t think.


    But I do. I think too much. I always do.


    I think about it. I think about everything. I think about the van that won’t run, about the office that felt like a coffin, about the sound of crawler eating. About how none of this makes sense. About how I can’t tell what’s real anymore.


    I squeeze my eyes shut, just for a second. Just to clear my head. Just to push everything back where it belongs.


    Then I hear it.


    A scrape. Metal against metal.


    I freeze. My breath catches. My fingers lock around the crowbar, too tight, too desperate. My pulse hammers against my ribs, my ears ringing with the sound of my own blood rushing too fast, too loud. Every muscle in my body screams to move, to run, but I can’t. I’m stuck in place, trapped by the weight of something I don’t understand.


    Another sound.


    I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know.


    But I do.


    Slowly, stiffly, I turn my head. My neck aches, my skin crawling with the sensation of being seen, being known by something that shouldn’t exist. My body feels wrong, heavy, like I’m moving through water, like the world itself is pushing back against me.


    And then I see it.


    A shape. Small. Twisted. Crawling.


    No. No, no, no, not again.


    Not again.


    Not again.


    Not again.


    It’s moving, dragging itself forward in slow, jerky motions, its body broken and useless, but still trying. Still reaching. Its fingers claw at the dirt, nails peeling away, leaving behind dark stains. Its breath rasps out, wet and ragged, like air forcing its way through ruined lungs. I can see the way its ribs strain against rotting flesh, the way its mouth hangs open, slack, like it’s waiting to take a bite of something that isn’t there.


    My stomach turns. My head spins. My fingers twitch around the crowbar, but I don’t lift it. Not yet.


    I just watch. Because I need to see. Because if I don’t, I won’t believe it’s real.


    I bite down on a sob, my teeth grinding together so hard it hurts. My breath comes out shaky, uneven, choking on itself. My whole body feels too tight, like my skin doesn’t fit right anymore, like I’m coming apart at the seams and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.


    It’s lying there, half-crushed under a rusted hood, just a pile of broken limbs and rotting skin. Its bones stick out at wrong angles, its body twisted like something dropped and forgotten. It shouldn’t be moving. It shouldn’t be alive.


    But it is.


    Its fingers twitch, scraping against the dirt. A slow, dragging movement, weak and useless, but still trying. Its head tilts, a stiff, jerky motion, like something pulling invisible strings. Its mouth hangs slack, lips peeling back over dark, ruined gums. Its eyes—clouded, hollow—stare forward, not seeing, not understanding. Not at me. Not at anything.


    And then it bites.


    Into the dirt.


    I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t think.


    It bites again. And again. Jaws working, chewing, swallowing something that isn’t there.


    No. No, this isn’t real. This can’t be real.


    My vision blurs. My chest is caving in, collapsing under something heavy, something crushing, something I can’t fight. My breath shudders out of me, torn and ragged. My body is trembling so hard I feel like I’m shaking apart.


    It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.


    But it is.


    I hear the sound. Wet. Slow. A hollow swallow. The same as before. The same as always.


    I squeeze my eyes shut. A whimper claws its way up my throat, but I bite it down, hold it back. If I let it out, if I break, I won’t stop. I’ll fall, and there won’t be anything left to catch me.


    I have to go. I have to go now.


    I turn.


    I run.


    I don’t look back.