Scales

Scales. John always loved them. They were so smooth and came in so many different shapes and sizes, he wondered how others didn't love them. Of course, along with that love for scales came a love for anything with scales. When he was younger, he had a fascination for dragons. He learned later that dragons weren't real, but looking at the scale in front of him, he was starting to question that. He was in the forest, nothing much. It was dense and easy to hide things in, which is why he came here. He was digging in a secluded part of the woods when his shovel hit something. Something hard and smooth. So of course he had to dig it up. Which led him here, staring at a scale that had to be at least a foot in diameter, wondering if dragons really were real. 

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Something smells good. Like rot. Like food. What is it? Must find. Must eat. Where. Wherewherewherewherewhere. There. Looking at scale. My scale. My scale. Smell good. Alive. Rotted on inside. Something on side. Smell bad. Dead. Rotted outside.

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Something rustled in the bushes behind him. John turned around.
'There shouldn't be anyone here. Did someone see?!' he thought. He made his way through the underbrush. The branches scraped at his skin, but he paid no mind. 'Tis only a flesh wound, after all. He kept pushing through the bushes, kept stomping through the mud. Until he stopped. The last thing he saw, the last word on his mind, scales.