Craning

Swivel round and round, three points. Only one private, at least in appearance. I make my way round, each swivel becoming more and more bogged down by an occlusion. Gel filling the chamber and into my lungs, pushing the air out. I try to cry out but my mouth held tight by hands with fish hooks for fingers. Rust clawing against my face. Her face coming to mine, pointed teeth, smile.

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