And All Things Will End
You gingerly push open the door and find yourself in a well-used hallway, with many doors lining the walls in a symmetrical pattern. You push open the nearest one to your left and enter the room that lies beyond.
Before you lies the remnants of a classroom, with carved wooden desks arranged in neat little rows facing a single wall. All of the seats are filled children, little piles of flesh that once housed consciousness now the home of plump white maggots winding their way through the lonely rotting organs. One girl has her head tilted back, her wide, innocent, glassy eyes looking through you. Her body is not easily discerned as human, the shape being closer to that of a worm or centipede. All the limbs have been severed, and the flesh is mutilated into a red blob. No one has shed a tear for her, or any of the other children. They understood. They did not resist.
In the center of the carnage is an elderly woman lying prostrate in the center, her eyes crazed and sad.
She does not regret what she has done.
She is at peace now.
She just wanted to make them understand.
Her hands are clutched right on long and sharp implements of unknown origin, and the blade is consistent with both the wounds on the students and the ones that scrawl elaborately across her chest and neck.
You turn and leave, being sure to close the door behind you.
Before you lies the remnants of a classroom, with carved wooden desks arranged in neat little rows facing a single wall. All of the seats are filled children, little piles of flesh that once housed consciousness now the home of plump white maggots winding their way through the lonely rotting organs. One girl has her head tilted back, her wide, innocent, glassy eyes looking through you. Her body is not easily discerned as human, the shape being closer to that of a worm or centipede. All the limbs have been severed, and the flesh is mutilated into a red blob. No one has shed a tear for her, or any of the other children. They understood. They did not resist.
In the center of the carnage is an elderly woman lying prostrate in the center, her eyes crazed and sad.
She does not regret what she has done.
She is at peace now.
She just wanted to make them understand.
Her hands are clutched right on long and sharp implements of unknown origin, and the blade is consistent with both the wounds on the students and the ones that scrawl elaborately across her chest and neck.
You turn and leave, being sure to close the door behind you.