This is not my body.
I wake in someone else's skin and taste copper. The ceiling is familiar. The smell of bleach too.
My cellar. My table. My chains.
Then I see myself descend the stairs.
I watch this me and understand that no one is coming. I know this because I know me. I have never left anything unfinished down here.
He sets the tray down and I know precisely what each instrument is for.
Fear lets my body shake.
The single bulb swings.
He smiles. I’ve never seen that smile from the outside.
It is so much worse.
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Timeliness by Stephen Sottong"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="A Torso for Tomorrow by Randall Andrews"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="A Rip in Time by Andrew Kurtz"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Tomorrow by B.G. Smith"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>