“Doctor!” he cries against the wood of the double ingress, his red wet teeth dripping gore as he slathers the carvings of deer and trees with blood; his mind remakes them into a white orchard, dropping limbs as pickers fester among the rotted fruit and tease amongst themselves that there’s going to be a next year, with no pestilence to plague them.
Boots crunch close, closer, travel-heels grinding together gravel and grey grey dust like the butts of hard leather pestles.
Clumps of fingers threaten violence across his long green hair, grabbing his scalp by the eyelids and an ear.
Somewhere above, in the tower itself, stained glass showers the grey dust below, evoking a futile sort of rainbow.
As he fails, he remembers the small dock half-buried in well-sanded dust and red-and-greenage off to the right of the mountains he had watched earlier, and wonders at the depths of its belly, and shuts his eyes.