"Don't say I didn't warn you."
The voices come from inside my skull. I can feel them cut loose and rattle
around, bouncing oddly off the curved walls and strange shapes
. The voices are all different, some cajoling, some threatening
, some simply stating the obvious.
"It's not too late to leave. Just turn around , slide out of the fold and you'll be done with all this."
"You shouldn't have to put up with this."
"Just say you want it to stop. That's all."
"If you don't want to say it, you don't have to. We'll know when you can't take anymore."
I should have known that nothing good ever comes from Circle K. I had to check it out for myself though--how many people actually get a chance to learn visual language from the Molders themselves? Strange things are afoot in the Circle K people said; if they only knew.
I see nothing. I feel nothing. I am wrapped in a cocoon of black nothingness, with only the ranting of someone's lunatic thoughts in my head for company. I'm not even sure the voices are someone elses. They might be. But then, they might be mine, too.
I blink back tears. I am filled with the most terrible sadness I have ever felt. My soul rends at the pain of it. I have no idea why.
I laugh with giddy elation at . . . I'm not sure.
I lash out in anger. I must kill. Rage suffuses me.
I breathe deeply. I don't think the voices are mine anymore. Someone is toying with me in ways I didn't think were possible.
I'm a pretty good street molder. I can fold things up quiet as a mouse, and I can even put on a fairly good show. Lights, shadows, all that I can make look real. But it's not, and I can't touch people without making myself sick. (I tried a couple of times before I learned my lesson.)
But whoever is messing with me, is a god.