The gas has done its job. You lie there barely awake, the pain in your teeth has numbed, from agony to a dull ache.
You lie there on the chair, dreading what comes next, your drooling mouth held agape by metal and perspex.
It's then that you spot it, hardly a spec to your blurred eyes, something dark on the ceiling, something that likes to eat flies.
You try to jerk away, to close your mouth and run, but the gas has done its job so well, you can barely twitch your thumb.
And on a thread… Here it comes…
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alt="Kent Town Station by James M. Rose"
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alt="Future’s Reflections by M. Tensor"
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