'Saturn Devouring One of His Sons' by Francisco Goya
The smell of smoke in my nostrils.
The touch of dead skin on my own.
The cold of soil chilling my bones.
The icy water washing my face.
The intoxication in my nerves.
The horror of the previous hours in my mind.
Reverberating inward to my spine.
The image of ghosts and the Devil in my eyes.
The feel of the hilt in my hands.
The smooth steel blade against my palm.
The blood on the tip of my tongue, still warm.
The feeling of weightlessness floating within.
The taste, the touch, the smell, too much.
The spine-tingling aura possessing me.
The dull perception of nothingness defying.
The taste of death, the bad taste in my mouth.