Copyright 2012 D. William Harvey
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I'm not sure who these people are anymore, but I know they want to kill me. Some days I question whether they've existed outside the paper-mache walls of wasting sanity. But that's just the way they want me to think, people cherish my confusion. It wasn't always this way. I’ll get to that later. People wear different faces for different times, they’re chameleons. They're all one, connected, hive-like, reptilian. I’m sure of this. Even as I look out the window, into a world that's appearing increasingly grey and diluted as the days burn to ash, I can sense their presence. It can be felt wherever I move, closing, tightening, and compressing everything inside. Everything, apart from what they've already taken from me. This viscous solution was unprotected, drying on the floor, quickly forgotten, forget it, there are more pressing things at hand.
Time is burning rapidly, life is melting, the world is fighting for breath. I'm fighting for breath in this room that has come to define the boundaries of my existence. It's a small room, walls scrubbed bare with steel wool, patched with newspaper clippings, 40 watt bulb hangs as the centerpiece. There’s a small suitcase, studded with mold, and me. It’s a claustrophobic cubicle and I ask myself, in the moments that I am myself, how I came to be here, with the people smiling at me with their ubiquitous eyes. I'm sure they know telepathy. It’s highly likely they know something about witchcraft and genetic engineering, time travel and thought control, but I’ll leave that up to you to confirm.