Fungal Halo

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She Who Stains

She crossed the room leaving a smudge across my vision that no amount of blinking would clear. Her fingertips bled black ink into the air around them. I should have been afraid, but I was transfixed, couldn’t let her leave my sight. I ditched my friends and followed her outside.

Where was she leading me? The question hardly felt important. Dark smudges increasingly swam over my field of view as I kept my eyes fixed on her, and it became difficult to see where I was going. I wiped my eyes to clear them, and my fingers came back covered in viscous black.

I closed my eyes and found I could see her better—as a shadow on the back of my eyelids. Her imprint was a darkness more perfect than mere absence of light, and I followed that shape as the edges bled, expanding her shape and distorting it with inky tendrils spanning my vision.

When at last I stumbled on something I could not see, she caught me. Without words, she held me. With a kiss, she filled me with endless night, with absence, with stillness and silence. I was home. And then I was nothing.