The glass cracked and with it the peace. The calm of the night convulsed with tension as the once contained cabin leaked. The current, corpulent and corroded with carrion, breached the atmosphere.
The boy crept to the curtain, his face soaked with sweat and frothing with fear as he peeked in. Originally he’d intended to look only for an instant, hoping to find his ball and leave, but when he looked that instant became infinite as his body became immobile.
Paralyzed with terror that weighted his veins, his eyes could not move, could not help but stare as if magnetized to the man. He lay slumped against a desk. His identity a mystery, masked as his face was with maggots. Roving randomly like a Rorschach drawing for the boy, they seemed to wriggle within his spine and mind.
His olfactory sense, before stifled by shock, suddenly rushed back as building bile clamped his mouth shut. A revolting rush ran over him: a reek. The work of weeks upon a body, decaying undiluted in an airtight room, warm with light from long summer days, filled him to brim.
The boy threw up.
A vitriolic volley of vomit, gushing like a geyser, his mouth did pour. And long after that sweet meringue his mother had made became clumped and cold upon his face, with involuntary intensity, he heaved.
Shaken from the throes he lay gasping grasping for any spare air until he heard the sound of a tap on glass…
To be continued, maybe