A middle-aged man sat in
the corner of an empty, filthy room.
There was one window,
wide open. A palm tree swayed in the
distance.
He wasn’t in
Chicago.
I was sure we were
looking at Sam.
The man looked at the
camera, his eyes seeming to peer out of the screen at Luke and myself.
He lurched upwards.
Not forward, but upwards,
propelled by some invisible force.
Quickly. Rapidly. Up, and
up, and…
Crack. Drop. Thud.
His head slammed into the
ceiling, his neck bending awkwardly.
The odd, jagged bones
that poked out, stretching and warping the skin, told us all we needed to
know.
Luke was at the top of
the list.
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