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Shell


by H-M Brown


This… is the prologue of our changing world…

Must focus…

Must focus…

Hmmmm…

I will do all I can to save what was left of my sanity. By severing my left arm, I gave myself a fighting chance. It was all worth it to tell you my account. What has happened today has forever changed the life of humanity. I am fortunate that I have a few streaks of white hair compare to the others. That was because I treated what I saw as if it were a solar eclipse, hiding behind the hole of a small cardboard, and peered through its dot. That was still not enough to prevent my state of conflictive insanity. What I saw, what we all saw, and those who will see, will no longer have any security of reality. What I saw I cannot even describe. No word, in any dictionary of any language, sound, or even a drawing, can truly define what we saw. I heard the reports on the radio. The military had been deployed and emergency services were providing help and rescue. It was all a worthless effort. Even looking at it on television was not enough to avoid falling out of reality. The best way I can explain without losing my sense of everything was to say that what I saw, was right now, traveling around the world.

I am near the edge of the end of my own thought. What will become of me? Will I end up like the children, boys and girls, hair that was white as the snow itself, who are right now sitting on their knees on the top of their beds? Their pupils shrunk to mere dots. Their skin soaked in their own sweat. Their tears, like a river, flow off their cheeks. Their drool oozing out of their mouths, with each whimper and moan. Their bladder can no longer be controlled. All looking up at the ceiling like empty little egg shells. All are frozen in time, forever.

Or will I end up like the women? Lying on their beds, mobile, barely able to talk. Snow white hair are flowing, each and every one of them. Their sheets had been removed and pillows taken away for fear of suffocation. All in the ward curled up like armadillos, head tucked into the legs, and arms hugging the knees. Like the children covered in their own sweat. Never ending crying, whispering under their breaths that they been raped by what they saw, even though what they saw never touched one part of their body. Nevertheless their minds were stripped layer by layer. A sensation of a pair of hands messaging the surface of their physical brain ensuring the trauma shall never be reversed. Those were the type of words they repeated over and over again.

The men. I will most likely end up like all the men. Sedated and tied down by wrist and ankle. To keep me from finding a weapon and killing off the women and the children so they would not suffer anymore. A mercy kill. Then suicide. Product of a reality collapsed onto itself that wasn't a matter of too much to bear, but a matter of too much to accept. We had been stripped of our will of denial. We had been ripped off the layer that was our manhood. We are beyond… something. Give me a gun. Give me a pencil.

A pencil. Give me a pencil so that I may have one last will of choice. To stab or to draw. My last will of choice. Please, I beg of you. I must decide for myself to draw what I thought I saw was a wing or a flipper. A wing, or a flipper.

A wing…

…a flipper…

Focus…

Focus…

Hmmmmmm…

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