It was everywhere. The sky, the trees, the broken outlines of the shadows that he saw flicking through the magenta leaves. The scabs on his arms – he scratched them through – pink, pink, pink again. He sucked at the wounds, tasted the festering, stained his teeth pink; but he could not see it, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.
He knew that it did, no matter how often he told himself it didn’t.
His damn teeth were pink now too, inside the cave of his mouth.
He heard their chirruping – they had yet to close in. Yet they were coming closer.
He dragged his knife along standing-stones and tree trunks, through beds of flowers and dug it deep into weird, twisting lichens. They all bled pink. He wiped the blade – pink – on his pants. Damn this place, damn this pink jungle.
He stumbled again across his scratch marks on the stones.
The gibbering came closer.
He dropped the knife.
Fell to his knees.
The bird-like voices came closer again.
He gave himself to them.
His purple-pink innards spilled onto the forest floor.