A prick. A sting. And the voice flows from the syringe—a whisper, really. Soft. Encouraging. Helpful. Nestling between my ears, warm and comfy. But one became two, and two, ten…
Do this. No, that. Stop. Go, wait!
The chorus grows and grows until there’s no room left for my own thoughts.
Run. Hide. Fight. Kill!
The voices rage. They demand. They cajole. They threaten. What do they want? Why? How do I give it to them? What can I do?
Now. NOW. NOW!
I scream. I SCREAM! And at last, they’re quiet… Another prick. Another sting. Another voice. Another.
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alt="Phantom by Liam Dragan"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Neuroluxe Implant no 3Z82M99B64 by Bryanna Botham"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Blindly Following Orders by Chris Tattersall"
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alt="Donor by Collette Night"
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>