The next time you sit down...



  • You’re sitting on the floor of a ruined church. The windows are shattered, the pews rotted and stained. The floor is littered with broken glass. One of the walls has been knocked out where a car smashed through it. The mangled remains of the vehicle burn and bleed in the aisle.

    Your attention isn’t on the car, though. It’s on your severed arm. A lump of cold, dead meat. Bits of glass jut out from the skin. Judging from the smell, it’s started to rot. But you’ve pressed it to the stump of your shoulder anway. Started to stitch it back in place by the flickering light of the car fire. You have to. Even though it hurts. And oh, it hurts. The thread is a rusty gold chain, the needle a fiery red gem. It burns as it slides through your flesh.

    On the ground nearby is an axe, blade embedded in the wooden floor. You want it. Ache to reach out and grasp the handle, yank it free. To swing and hack. There’s a rope that need to be cut, and it would be so easy-

    But you only have one working hand. You can’t swing the axe and stitch your arm back on. It’s one or the other.

    So you sit on the floor, jabbing that burning red gem into your skin over and over and over again.

    It hurts.

    But you don’t stop.