It’s rusting to crimson. Standing behind the sun, swallowing the fires and flares until the hunger quiets down. The lake glistens its image back, and all I can think about is the scarlet meat I cut into last night. The Hemoglobin, the juices, blood spilling out of the dam. It stains my hands, gnawing at the webs of my fingers. After all these hours.
The living room walls are tainted, rusted—I hear a thunk from the kitchen. Peaking my head through the door into a vacant room, the floor creaks under the weight of the air. Nothing can fall in here. Nothing can land.
The slab of meat emerges from the cracks in the floor. Burgundy, deepened with time. Fruit Flies gather, landing on the rotting flesh, taking off again. Taking turns. One after the other—an organized system. Their tiny, fleshy eggs embedded in the fat. They tremble. Crack.
I look up from the roofless top to the setting sun. Crimson to maroon to black. It always turns to black.