My skin… it feels like there’s a little matrix of wires running along it, bringing all this mechanical coldness just under the surface. Maybe I’m just a robot and my whole life until now has been a dream. That would be good- Samhain wouldn’t be dead as she never would have actually existed, and the pumps and engines that my heart has turned into the past few weeks can stop being there in metaphor and only in reality.
Why, hello there, Mr. Rainbow Stalk Man. What, you don’t like having your face touched? What’s up with having me stretched out and tied down everywhere I go, anyways? Letting go of me would just let me drift up to the ceiling; after all, I feel so light. What an oxymoron- I’m a machine and a drift of smoke at the same time. What, am I now going to develop wings and fly away? Is that even a thing here?
Everybody here keeps echoing, “Rena, Rena, Rena,” after each other whenever I’m in the room. Rainbow Stalk Man says that they need to stop and call me by a number, but I’m not a number. I don’t have the sweeping curves of a number eight or the stoic peace of a number one, unless “Rena” is a number and I’m confused. I’m confused about everything, I guess. Can that be a fact? Or is it an opinion?
There’s always some kind of bright lights above me. Lights… there were lights on the road, hanging furiously from the sky on the night I drove home clutching a can of ashes and crumpled over screaming. Am I on stage in one of those gigantic stadiums and everybody is laughing at me where I can’t hear them? But these lights bring new blankets muffling my senses and binds keeping me from floating up to the ceiling.


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