(no subject)
Her name is Skin. She's feline, sphinx-like, overpowering. She pushes medicine into the PVC on my hand before I can stop her. It smells sharp, acidic. The colourless, odourless fluid that drips from my hand must be my own medicine, leeching out in her wake. My hand throbs against the foreign substance, wrong.
I find my way back - homebase, hatching place, prison. I am aware of myself, hulking, monsterlike, clutching a blanket around my shoulders. I make myself small as I pass the guards beating down a riot. They pay me no mind. I show the boss (my maker, maybe my tormentor, maybe my protector) my shaking, bleeding hand. She laughs and tells me it doesn't matter, and sends me away. When I get out into the street and see the circling hunters, her hawkmen, in the distance I know I have been betrayed.
I dodge and duck and double back and circle round, past buildings and dark gardens and brightly-lit kitchen interior exhibits. I slip through the crowd in a mall and into a backalley residential area. Dirt road, mud brick houses, dust and sun, everybody is poor and more human than I.
I start to feel safe. A man steps out of a doorway: Indian middleclass looking, with sad eyes, a little mustache, beige or blue cotton shirt. He grabs my arm and I know I cannot lash out against this man. I don't know if he will turn me in.
I find my way back - homebase, hatching place, prison. I am aware of myself, hulking, monsterlike, clutching a blanket around my shoulders. I make myself small as I pass the guards beating down a riot. They pay me no mind. I show the boss (my maker, maybe my tormentor, maybe my protector) my shaking, bleeding hand. She laughs and tells me it doesn't matter, and sends me away. When I get out into the street and see the circling hunters, her hawkmen, in the distance I know I have been betrayed.
I dodge and duck and double back and circle round, past buildings and dark gardens and brightly-lit kitchen interior exhibits. I slip through the crowd in a mall and into a backalley residential area. Dirt road, mud brick houses, dust and sun, everybody is poor and more human than I.
I start to feel safe. A man steps out of a doorway: Indian middleclass looking, with sad eyes, a little mustache, beige or blue cotton shirt. He grabs my arm and I know I cannot lash out against this man. I don't know if he will turn me in.