Last minute begging
Tiny Way to Die
chapter 15
by
Froakie
You scream, pouring every ounce of your remaining strength into your plea.
"M-MOM, PLEASE!! I S-STILL WANT MORE TIME!! D-DON'T KILL ME!!"
The result is marginally better than before. Instead of a completely inaudible squeak, your voice produces a tiny, high-frequency buzz, a faint vibration against the skin of her fingertip. It's so subtle that for a moment, you think it's just your own shaking body. But your mother, her senses heightened to an impossible degree by her frantic state, feels it.
It's not a sound she recognizes as a voice. To her, it's just a twitch, a minute spasm. Perhaps it's just the last nerve impulse firing in a body too small to sustain life. The ambiguity of the sensation doesn't comfort her; it terrifies her. It solidifies her resolve. She interprets it not as a plea for life, but as the final, convulsive shudder of a body on the brink of non-existence.
"Oh, honey," she whispers, her voice thick with a sorrow so profound it's almost a physical substance. "It's okay. Mama's here. I'll make it okay."
The internal debate raging within her is etched across her colossal features. Her brow furrows, her lips tighten into a thin, trembling line. The merciful path—a quick, clean end—is logical. It would be simple.
Your mother's gaze drifts downward, her immense eyes fixing upon the finger you stand upon. She considers the first option. It would be so simple. A flex of muscle, a deliberate press. The pad of her thumb, a fleshy pink continent, would descend upon you. The pressure would be instantaneous, absolute. There would be a brief, wet crunch, a sensation of popping, and then nothing. It would be over in a fraction of a second. A clean, efficient end. But the thought of actively grinding her own child into pulp, even out of mercy, sends a wave of nausea through her.
Her eyes then shift to her own chest, to the swell of her breasts contained within her white blouse. She imagines returning you to that warm, dark valley. She could simply press them together. The soft flesh would mold around you, conforming to your shape before the pressure became too great. You would be enveloped, consumed by her own body, disappearing into the soft warmth. It seemed almost peaceful, a return to the origin. Yet, the image of your tiny form being slowly compressed, your bones snapping one by one in that suffocating darkness, is equally horrific.
Her tongue unconsciously traces the edge of her teeth as she contemplates the third option. The thought is visceral, primal. She could lift you to her lips, part them, and place you on her tongue. The wet, muscular cavern of her mouth would be your entire world for a few fleeting moments. Then, a simple, decisive bite. The sharp edges of her incisors would snap shut. The sensation would be sharp, shocking, and brutally final. The image of your tiny body severed between her teeth, the taste of coppery blood filling her mouth, is so abhorrent that she visibly recoils, a shudder running through her entire frame. The fingertip you stand on lurches violently, nearly throwing you off.
Her gaze drifts lower, past her stomach, to the pants she wears. She pictures herself pulling them down, letting them fall to the floor. The thought of her bare flesh, the soft, expansive plane of her buttocks, hovering over you is obscene. She imagines placing you on the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor. Then, slowly lowering herself. The shadow would fall first, plunging you into darkness. Then the warmth, followed by the immense, crushing weight. It wouldn't be a quick impact; it would be a slow, inexorable press, sinking you into the floor, the soft flesh molding and conforming until you were flattened into a gruesome stain.
"M-MOM, PLEASE!! I S-STILL WANT MORE TIME!! D-DON'T KILL ME!!"
The result is marginally better than before. Instead of a completely inaudible squeak, your voice produces a tiny, high-frequency buzz, a faint vibration against the skin of her fingertip. It's so subtle that for a moment, you think it's just your own shaking body. But your mother, her senses heightened to an impossible degree by her frantic state, feels it.
It's not a sound she recognizes as a voice. To her, it's just a twitch, a minute spasm. Perhaps it's just the last nerve impulse firing in a body too small to sustain life. The ambiguity of the sensation doesn't comfort her; it terrifies her. It solidifies her resolve. She interprets it not as a plea for life, but as the final, convulsive shudder of a body on the brink of non-existence.
"Oh, honey," she whispers, her voice thick with a sorrow so profound it's almost a physical substance. "It's okay. Mama's here. I'll make it okay."
The internal debate raging within her is etched across her colossal features. Her brow furrows, her lips tighten into a thin, trembling line. The merciful path—a quick, clean end—is logical. It would be simple.
Your mother's gaze drifts downward, her immense eyes fixing upon the finger you stand upon. She considers the first option. It would be so simple. A flex of muscle, a deliberate press. The pad of her thumb, a fleshy pink continent, would descend upon you. The pressure would be instantaneous, absolute. There would be a brief, wet crunch, a sensation of popping, and then nothing. It would be over in a fraction of a second. A clean, efficient end. But the thought of actively grinding her own child into pulp, even out of mercy, sends a wave of nausea through her.
Her eyes then shift to her own chest, to the swell of her breasts contained within her white blouse. She imagines returning you to that warm, dark valley. She could simply press them together. The soft flesh would mold around you, conforming to your shape before the pressure became too great. You would be enveloped, consumed by her own body, disappearing into the soft warmth. It seemed almost peaceful, a return to the origin. Yet, the image of your tiny form being slowly compressed, your bones snapping one by one in that suffocating darkness, is equally horrific.
Her tongue unconsciously traces the edge of her teeth as she contemplates the third option. The thought is visceral, primal. She could lift you to her lips, part them, and place you on her tongue. The wet, muscular cavern of her mouth would be your entire world for a few fleeting moments. Then, a simple, decisive bite. The sharp edges of her incisors would snap shut. The sensation would be sharp, shocking, and brutally final. The image of your tiny body severed between her teeth, the taste of coppery blood filling her mouth, is so abhorrent that she visibly recoils, a shudder running through her entire frame. The fingertip you stand on lurches violently, nearly throwing you off.
Her gaze drifts lower, past her stomach, to the pants she wears. She pictures herself pulling them down, letting them fall to the floor. The thought of her bare flesh, the soft, expansive plane of her buttocks, hovering over you is obscene. She imagines placing you on the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor. Then, slowly lowering herself. The shadow would fall first, plunging you into darkness. Then the warmth, followed by the immense, crushing weight. It wouldn't be a quick impact; it would be a slow, inexorable press, sinking you into the floor, the soft flesh molding and conforming until you were flattened into a gruesome stain.
Froakie
(1)
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June 1
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