Some built it up as a burning thing, a combustible thing, but I knew it as a pierce through the window. There were too many small bites to let the heat show. I lost track. The bones inside kept moving.
Jillison had a red incision and a face with various backings. Chalk, gypsum, pigment, or any combination of these.
The room was in linear form, the interior was cut out of dark paper. The walls offered advice on how to distinguish between a drowning (water in the lungs) and strangulation (broken neck cartilage). Jillison read them in front of me.
You start to hate yourself and you don’t even know it. A crow storm at the corners of your mouth. A silhouette split open with an ice pick. It becomes every day.
Head wounds (zygomatic fracture, nasal fracture, orbital floor fracture) matched perfectly with a piece of wet paper they kept in their pocket.
The room went from cold to bone level in less than an hour. I don’t know how.
They told me to wait, so I did. They said it would hurt and it did.
I tried to sleep, six blankets on top of me, it wasn’t enough. I tried to put the skin back on. In the dark, with only my open veins.
A cornered animal must create their own cage.