A Hollow Shell

Night pooled into the rotted floor cavity beneath the desk. I laid my lashed weapon down, letting my burlap knuckles probe the dark sediment. Deep in the wood rot rested an empty, weathered snail shell, spiraled like a dead vortex. I brought it before my button eyes, turning its fragile calcium curve in the gloom. With deliberate, measured pressure, I pressed the hollow spiral over one of the long steel pins protruding from my chest, sliding it down until the needle pierced its apex and held it immovably fast against my burlap skin. It sits upon my heart now, an empty tomb guarding what does not beat.