By Astra Crompton
Smashing crescendos: the sound of pain, twisting, corroding, stretching past the point of breaking and then pressed and moulded.
I am born, torn from my life and pressed into a facsimile here. I am vaguely aware of this, but there is something not quite right, senses all in disarray. I am not reborn; it is more like being woken from a deep and dreamless sleep. I struggle to breathe, pain in my lungs, and feel my flesh flopping wetly against a hard surface, limbs filled with pins and needles, their motions as yet too erratic to give me control of my own body. I cough, I feel a bit of viscous film spittle up between my lips, and I roll my eyes open.