¬ Hiln
Her flesh peeled back in thick, glistening folds that curled outward and kept curling, stretching impossibly far from what should have been the limits of her frame.
There was no blood.
Instead, where her insides should have been, there was nothing but a void.
And it did not seem or even feel empty.
It churned slow and viscous, like oil poured into water with that same iridescent quality where colours shouldn't exist but did, bleeding through the black in shifting sheens that slid across the surface of the darkness.
Deep purples bled into sickly greens, and flashes of that same pink that usually burned in her eyes slid over itself in thin, shimmering films that caught light that wasn't there. The colours layered without mixing, folding over and under each other like something alive.
