Here's a story, it may be straight-up dookie. I wanted to make it sound like a loser was writing a creepypasta. Lol!
Apparent hairlines and broken arteries
When humans live, they believe themselves to be ultimately singular, and are thus protected by their own sense of self. These living and breathing flesh pustules think their lives are not comparable with others’ and that every experience is one that is unique. This notion we chance to gift to the mind however is all but a fantasy derived from delusion and perceived isolation on an actually nonexistent scope. What is, however, unique about the experiences of an individual is how they taste. When one sees how the silk is woven, all they can do is wait and watch the worm produce it before taking it for themselves, fashioning it into something which they need. For Alexander the Grimgoer, people and their time are much like that.
It’s a foggy evening on a Thursday. Someone in a pinafore apron and white cap stands outside of the back door of what appears to be a decrepit and rotting hospital. The area looks run down. The back exterior wall is brick with two dumpsters lined together, filled with what appears to be discarded medical waste. Below the trash containers there’s something on or now in the once dark grey concrete floor beneath them enough to discolor it to a dark yellow-greenish red. Perhaps it’s bile, which means no one will notice if there’s more than just filth on it. They’re holding something, a piece of cloth which is tinged with vibrant reds, crisp yellows and dark, faded purples. They are holding onto it with the grip of a banshee, the reverse jaws of life that their hands are to pressurize such an insignificant-looking torn fabric sheet. This article of once clothing obviously holds some meaning to the individual gripping it, but to the humble observer it would be hard to tell just by seeing it. They are looking off into the distance, perhaps wondering what they will do next. The world seems to be expanding without them, and it seems they feel so small already. Their expression is contemplative but spaced out. They reach into the breast pocket of their undershirt and pull out a box of cigarettes, a silver butane lighter with a mother-of-pearl handle and a drawstring bag with something small and narrow in it. The smokes are emblazoned with the “Onglashmir” logo with its disheartening slogan “The Smokes that Choke” in brilliant golden calligraphic lettering. Other than that the box itself was an unremarkable violet. They click the ignition switch of the lighter, and a fleeting flame of deep dark crimson forms from the metal shaft. They drag out a bovine-skin stick from the pack and put it in between their lips. They then bring the flame to the end of the stick, and singe the paper enough to show visible turquoise embers. They then take a large drag, and exhale a plume of wispy smoke. Alex notices that another person is doing the exact same thing, minus the rag and nurse garb, around 235 miles away. Not important, this can still happen. They don’t notice anything coming from the garbage can, not a sound or an aura, which is good. It means that Alex can do this quickly and efficiently. He just needs to make sure this moment is devastating and that it’s a culmination of all of their past actions. That’s the real kicker, making things count is the only real way he can get his meal ticket. He can hear his sickle sing for what it so greatly desires from the person standing just outside of the metal confines of this awful smelling box. He only has to wait for the right moment. When it comes, he’ll know. A movement of the eyes, a closing of the jaws, even a flutter of the heart in a certain way could give a signal.
Just then, they looked up at the sky, landing their gaze upon a lesser star which may go unnoticed even when pointed out to another. They throw down the glowing Butt onto the grimey pavement, its flame being snuffed out before it hits the ground. Now is his chance. He carefully, almost surgically opens the dumpster’s hatch and slithers out, a salty puke-green limb firmly planting itself onto the pavement. Then, gaining the leverage of his one leg, he swings out of the dumpster, making sure to keep his hand on the lid to prevent the plastic husk from making noise when clacking onto the aged and corroded metal. He reaches into the Dumpster for a final time, and pulls out the shining sickle by its crimson-tinged wooden handle.
“The night is warm and silent, like a fart”