July 27, 2015
It had been so long. How long was hard to say since there was no light here. For days - maybe years or centuries - I had refused to touch the food. Banquets of heaped food left in piles to rot. I would not eat it.
The dead milled around it, looking at the food their master had laid out. Their eyes held confusion - as though they recognized it as food, but no longer knew what to do with it. The dead eat little.
But it was the seeds. I have a thing for them - comes from my mother. So I would walk the garden and brush my fingers over the strange fruit that grew there. The skin felt strange - dried, like leather. But it was fruit, and my stomach growled.
The juice was dripping down my chin when the Gardener found me, crouched in the corner, the rind of the pomegranate at my feet. They tasted of blood and life and they stained my teeth and filled me with strange life and stranger death.
I had no coins to pay. We all knew I would be paying with currency that was my time and my body. I licked my lips, feelings the seeds in my belly and I smiled, and the Gardener recoiled from the sight. Already roots were pushing through my body and blooming in this dark place.
Seeds are my domain and the lord of death would see spring. I would take root in his grim heart, and push it apart to see the sky once more.