Every time I try to imagine an end, I see another pair of legs discarded like trash, and my body freezes. I'm here, alive enough to watch, dead enough not to fight. I want to scream, but my chest is empty. I want to run, but my legs, my real ones, don't respond.
He's in front of me, moving slowly, as if he knows time belongs to him, as if my despair is just another decoration for his dance. He doesn't look at me. Why would he? I've already been chosen, already been used. This disgusting pulsating filth that coats the walls. There's no escape.
I was supposed to be one, supposed to be whole, I'm multiplied into pieces of flesh that never stop screaming, even when the sound is gone. Every copy of me dies and is reborn, and I feel it. God, how I feel it.
I see, but I can't close my eyes.
They're there, stretched out like dishonored sacrifices, two pairs of legs that carry my form but not my life. Covered by a thin curtain, almost mocking, as if that could hide what's been done.
