For all of that, they could not die. The blood poured from the bone-deep gashes of the eviscerated and faceless corpses which hung and swayed overhead. The mutilated and shapeless bodies writhed, their eyeless skulls staring hopelessly with red rivers of tears. It was unsanitary, the cool thought passed through his head. Decade upon decade had taught him a certain dissociation, a certain acceptance on principle that these things were going to happen whether he liked it or not, and the only remnant of his aversion that his mind could still entertain without shattering was the age old façade of utilitarian sophistry. Let not the harsh and inflexable words of good or bad fall with all their jagged meaning and unarguable weight upon this scene, a rock hewn by no hand. Unsanitary was a much better word, or wasteful, or inopportune; these had the merit, at least, of having done some good at some times. He had, disguising it even from his own mind, smuggled in some clemency and kindness into his master’s house by such simple pretenses. He would try unsanitary when he got the chance. The tormented things above him wailed as he passed under their sticky shower.
Related:
Over the Wall
Luna’s Tears
A Poem: Demons’ Birth
The Graverobber
Tale Told 