He wasn’t afraid of death—until he started hearing it.
It began with a soft crackling, like dry leaves underfoot. Then came the dripping. Inside his skull. Slow. Rotten.
He stopped eating. Then speaking. No sound could drown it.
He opened his mouth once to scream, but only dust came out.
By the time they found him, he was a shell—eyes wide, jaw unhinged.
Nailed to the ceiling above him, in his own handwriting:
"It wasn’t death that came. It was decay, and it started from within."
6000 x 5000 px
digital painting
