Drosera Ossifraga — The Bone Crusher
The tongue came out from between the leaves, descending from the high ceiling of the hall. I felt nausea in my throat as I watched it slowly approach. It stretched out and let saliva fall onto the head of the first in line. He was kneeling, sobbing in despair:
“I beg you. Spare my life, my King.”
His cries echoed through the entire hall—a good man, poor, without family, with barely any flesh on his bones. We had been in the same cell; we received not a single miserable crumb of bread, only the humiliation of the guards.
The king looked at him with such disdain and gave the order, with an expression of almost boredom. A great wave of rage coursed through my body. Bones cracked inside the plant’s closed mouth; they were all crushed at once, then swallowed whole as the plant retreated to the ceiling.
Next.
Looking around, I saw Latin inscriptions dedicated to this species of giant carnivorous plant. Even marble sculptures decorated the hall. The king seemed to have a fascination with his pet.
And on both sides, in the darkness, the court’s seats were filled with nobles. Their smiling eyes could be glimpsed, and the mix of their perfumes could be smelled. They murmured, judging and mocking the aesthetics of each death. They seemed to enjoy the spectacle. I wished the worst death upon those rich sadists. I would kill each one of them myself.
Again, the sound: crack, crack, crack.
Next.
They threw me to the floor in front of the king, but I was not going to beg in such a situation. I met the king’s gaze with hatred and defiance. If I am going to die, I will make sure he remembers me. For a second, not a single breath stirred in that vast hall, only expectation.
He approached, dragging his white garments through the blood and the remains of the last devoured. I showed him, through my eyes and with all my rage, what he truly was: a demon. He struck me with a force that made me feel the satisfaction I had sought for my final moments. The king’s command rang out, and this monstrous plant wrapped around me and bent my entire body.
CRACK, CRACK, CRACK.
Author’s Note
This is a story inspired by the prompt: “The Devil’s Pet.” It is based on one of my old illustrations — an image that never left my mind. I’m glad I could bring it back, this time in the form of a written story.
I asked myself: What if the devil were not a supernatural being, but his pet was? And how would it feel to witness this situation from the perspective of a condemned villager?
The title refers, in Latin, to a bone-crushing carnivorous plant.
Published in the Dark Lore Digest
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