Why am I running so slowly? Is there wet cement on the ground? Is there cement in my shoes? No, no…I’m not wearing-
SHOES? I’m not wearing shoes! Oh crapcrapcrap…Where are my shoes? Aw, crap, Mom’s gonna lose it when I tell her I lost my shoes! Maybe I’ll say I tripped and my feet landed in the-
FIRE? Why is the ground on fire? Oh CRAP I’m not wearing any shoes! I’m going to die! I’m going to burn!!! Flamesflamesashesashes…are my legs turning into ashes? THINK IDIOT THINK. Okay…stop drop roll. But what if the ground’s on fire? The flames are hungry; eating my legs like a-
MONSTER? Running after me? I’m 15 years old! I know there aren’t any monsters…so WHY oh WHY is there one right behind me? Wait. How am I running? I don’t have shoes…I DON’T HAVE LEGS! The thing lunges out, grasping my upper thigh (what’s still there, anyway). Something red and thin as water erupts from the gaping wounds, it’s-
BLOOD? O+; common as the day is long. Why does the monster want MY blood?! It’s average!!! I’m on the ground; I’m on fire. I’m going to DIE. I am going to freaking die. Death by fire…I guess that’s kind of cool right? Better than-
DROWNING? The monster’s got my head tightly between his tentacle-like limbs, shoving me in a puddle of something…How is there a puddle if the ground’s a giant bonfire?! Before I’m completely under, I see ashes : Oh, DUH, the blood put the flames out. Hah. But now I all I can see is-
BLACK? Black eyes. Midnight eyes. But…they’re human-
EYES!!! REGULAR.EYES. I have never been so happy to see a stranger before. A stranger with eyes as dark as an eclipsed moon. Now there’s just a light…no! I want the dark again. But then the light’s gone.
The ceiling is white. It smells like a hospital. My eyes shift around…it IS a hospital. I hear a voice. Mom’s voice?
“Mom?” I cry…but the word isn’t nearly as loud as it is in my head. Her hands are ice cold as they grip mine, her eyes bright red and filled with tears.
“Mom…I’m sorry. I lost the shoes.” I confess.
She bursts out in tears. I KNEW SHE’D LOSE IT!
Some other voice, one I don’t recognize, the voice of a sadist who steps on flowers. “Sorry, son…you won’t need those shoes.”
I’m confused. “What?”
“Your legs. We had to amputate them.”