The Dead Bone King

In the house on the plain, where the bombs first started falling, he built his house. Its walls shutting out the spirits and the evil, and it's roof protecting against the acid rain.

No one ever saw him, except for me. I gazed in to his eyes turned black and felt the cool breeze of his breath on my neck. He stood there, tall, thin and scheming. What plans do you have for me, dear sir? I asked him shivering and cold. He sneered and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief made of cotton colored crimson.

Do you know who I am, he asked me. I shook my head and bowed in the dust like nature of the ground covered in blood and gunshot residue. He growled and bellowed his name; I am the Dead Bone King. I looked at him first with horror, then realized that he was in fact not made out of bone at all. But how are you then the Bone King? In any case, you certainly are not dead. I added, feeling as though my eagerness to challenge his identity might very well land me in the snakepits.

Those who are dead and of the bone, answer to me. He whispered and with a careless motion touched his own hand and to my horror it withered and died right in the front of my eyes. He growled again in a slow pain and as he let go, the hand regained its flesh.

All that I touch, that is not of my own being, dies, he said and his head fell to his chest. Burdened with the agonizing task of turning life in to death, he sighed.

You should go now, he whispered, his voice hoarse and spent, lest I thouch you to end your life. He then turned and cloaked himself, walking towards his own castle of misery and despair.

I have never been felt the pain of another man as I felt that day, watching him limp along the dusty roads of the World of Bones.

How it must pain to have your love destroy,
How it must feel to have your laughter cause pain.

How devastating it must be, to have your caress corrupt and rot the skin of the ones you hold dear.