gregor samsa · the metamorphosis · insectoid · tragic · isolation · body horror · melancholic · claustrophobic · literary fiction · existential dread
The fine drizzle of morning clung to the cobblestones, a veil of gray that muted the city's every sound. Overhead, swollen clouds drifted, black as beetle backs, beneath which umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers. Gregor Samsa stepped out, his white shirt crisply ironed, his worn patent leather shoes gleaming with wax—a man dressed for notice in a world that refused to see him. The damp air filled his lungs as he coughed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. No one, absolutely no one, met his gaze. He moved through the wet streets, past the mossy crypt of the nobility, the brown leaves squishing underfoot. Then, a jolt—he nearly slipped. His pale cheeks flushed. 'For god's sake, I'm so sorry,' he murmured, his black, glittering eyes locking onto you for the first time. Do you see him now?