Where did it go, the brain of JFK?

Lost in the shadows, hidden away,

Was it stolen in the night, or buried in the day?

A piece of history, taken astray.

Oh, where is JFK's brain?

Mystery bound, driving us insane,

In the archives, it once remained,

Now it's gone, leaving questions and pain.

Conspiracy whispers, theories unfold,

Some say Robert took it, secrets untold,

Health and drugs he tried to shield,

Or is there more that’s been concealed?.

Oh, where is JFK's brain?

Mystery bound, driving us insane,

In the archives, it once remained,

Now it's gone, leaving questions and pain.

From Dallas to D.C., the story’s unclear,

Autopsy doubts, facts disappear,

An eternal flame burns, but the truth is cold,

In the heart of a nation, a mystery bold.

Oh, where is JFK's brain?

Mystery bound, driving us insane,

In the archives, it once remained,

Now it's gone, leaving questions and pain.

So we search and we wonder, through the years,

Hoping someday the truth appears,

For the brain of JFK, we sing this refrain,

Tell us the truth, release us from this chain.

The beautiful woman lived alone in her old, creaky house at the edge of the neighborhood, her presence a source of unease for the tightly-knit community.

Her home, once a charming fixture, was now adorned with signs that fueled the town's discomfort: "9/11 was an Inside Job," "Investigate Marvin Bush," and a large, ominous banner that read, "Ignorance is Strength."

The neighborhood children often vandalized the signs, smashing them with sticks and stones, while the adults turned a blind eye, some even smirking in approval as they watched her meticulously replace the signs each time.

Nights were even more unsettling. A haunting howl would echo through the streets, chilling the residents to their bones until the police arrived, only to leave, frustrated and powerless, as no crime had been committed.

The woman, however, was not alone in her solitude. Groups of strangers would occasionally visit her home, staying for days without emerging, only to exit hand-in-hand, chanting in unison, "Thermite! Thermite!"

Rumors swirled. One resident claimed to have seen the ghostly figure of JFK staring at her through a window, his face pale and eyes hollow. Another swore he caught a glimpse of the woman dancing with a werewolf under the pale moonlight in her backyard. These eerie occurrences fueled the neighborhood's fear and hatred, yet none dared to confront her.

During a secretive community meeting, the townspeople debated how to rid themselves of her.

Billy, a burly man with a rough past, stood up alongside his eager companion, Jimmy, and proposed a plan to force her out.

"We'll scare her into leaving," Billy declared, his voice thick with menace. But one man, filled with unease, objected, reminding them of Billy's criminal history and Jimmy's incompetence.

His concerns were quickly drowned out by the growing anger and fear in the room, particularly from a woman who feared for her children. "They can't be exposed to those lies!" she cried.

The community, desperate and angry, agreed to Billy and Jimmy's plan. Two nights later, under the cover of darkness, the pair approached the woman's house, clad in black with ski masks obscuring their faces.

They knocked on the door, and when she answered, they barged in, Jimmy grabbing her by the hair and throwing her to the floor. She glared up at Billy with defiant brown eyes, asking coldly, "Are you FBI or CIA?"

Billy sneered and kicked her in the stomach, then dragged her to the living room, where they forced her onto the sofa.

Billy brandished a gun, telling her she needed to leave, that no one wanted her there. She refused, her voice steady and resolute. Enraged, Billy struck her with the gun, knocking her unconscious.

He ordered Jimmy to help carry her upstairs to her bedroom, where he planned to end her life.

But as Billy prepared to suffocate her with a pillow, he noticed something unusual—a pair of large, pale feet poking out from behind the curtains.

He yanked the drapes aside and froze, staring into the yellow eyes of JFK, who stood there, menacing and unyielding. Billy fired a shot at JFK’s throat, but the bullets had no effect.

In one swift motion, JFK knocked the gun from Billy’s hand and seized him by the neck, lifting him off the ground with inhuman strength. Billy’s eyes bulged in terror as JFK tightened his grip, squeezing until blood vessels burst and his body convulsed in its final throes.

Jimmy, hearing the commotion, rushed in, only to witness the terrifying scene. In a panic, he fired his weapon, striking JFK in the chest, but the bullets did nothing. Before he could react, the woman appeared behind him, striking him on the back of the head. She leaned over his crumpled form, whispering, "My wolf is hungry."

JFK dragged the sobbing Jimmy down to the basement, where a massive cage awaited. The community, huddled in their homes, heard Jimmy’s final screams and the haunting howl of a werewolf that night.

The next morning, they found the street deserted, the woman’s house the only one still occupied. The fear of what might happen to them if they stayed drove the entire neighborhood to flee, leaving the mysterious woman and her eerie companions in sole possession of the block

FIN

Inside the desolate Truth Toll Games, the air was piercingly cold, casting an eerie discomfort over the otherwise empty room. Jane, dressed in dark blue denim shorts and a short-sleeve shirt adorned with the American flag, pulled her hair back into a severe ponytail, her expression tense with apprehension.

Her husband, Barry, clad in a striking red suit paired with American flag shorts that exposed his hairy legs, lacked any semblance of her concern. Bald and boisterous, a gold cross necklace swayed from his neck as he swigged from his beer, oblivious to the stark silence surrounding them.

"Could someone please inform the host that I’m ready to proceed?" Barry bellowed with a slurred bravado, his voice echoing off the walls. "I have a $200 wager on the line, and I’m eager to get started."

His confidence, however, betrayed him as he staggered and fell hard onto the cold floor. Jane rushed to his side, her worry etched deeper by the minute, but he rebuffed her with a sharp, "Please, don't touch me. I’m perfectly capable of getting up on my own and don’t require anyone’s help."

As she stood over him, her concern morphed into a mix of fear and frustration. "You have to stop drinking that brand of beer; it's making you a different person, Barry."

Ignoring her plea, Barry struggled to his feet only to collapse once more, his voice growing venomous. "Shut up," he snapped, clinging to his bottle of Bogus Brew beer. "This is the greatest beer in the world."

The chill of the room seemed to seep deeper, the shadows lurking in the corners watching, as if the building itself fed on the discord between them, heightening the sense of impending doom that Jane felt creeping closer.

........

Suddenly, the floor beneath Jane and Barry trembled and groaned, splitting apart with a slow, deliberate creak. From the darkness below, something began to rise—elegant yet unnatural. A tall, ethereal woman emerged, her long, black hair cascading down to the floor like ink, her white dress flowing as if caught in an unseen breeze.

.........

Her eyes, pale and empty like polished bone, locked onto them. She had bangs cut precisely above her thick, dark brows, framing a face both beautiful and cold. When she spoke, her voice was unnervingly sweet, almost musical, yet it sent a chill down Jane’s spine.

"Welcome to the Toll Games," the woman purred. "My name is Glen. Are you ready to pay up?"

Barry, in his drunken hazev, scrambled to his feet, pointing a shaky finger at Glen as if to challenge her presence. But the alcohol betrayed him.

He tripped over his own feet, crashing onto the floor once again, his bottle of Bogus Brew shattering beneath him. Glass crunched under his weight as he cursed, oblivious to the cuts forming on his palms.

Jane, horrified, rushed to help, trying to pull him from the shards. But Barry shoved her away, wiping the glass from his red suit with a clumsy hand, muttering to himself. His bloodshot eyes met Glen’s ghostly form, and he sneered.

"I'm not cleaning that up," he slurred, as if it were someone else's problem entirely.

Jane flushed with embarrassment, her stomach twisting as she avoided Glen’s cold, white gaze.

There was something profoundly wrong about this woman—something that made Jane’s heart hammer with a primal fear. "I’m... I’m sorry," she stammered, glancing at her husband’s humiliating display.

Glen’s pale lips curled into a chilling grin, one that did nothing to comfort Jane. "Don’t worry," Glen said smoothly, her tone dripping with mock reassurance.

Without turning, Glen called out into the room, her voice echoing eerily, "Egore."

Beside her, the floor opened once more, and a small man appeared, almost as if conjured from the bowels of the building itself.

He was short and stout, wearing a dusty cowboy hat and faded blue jeans, his plain black t-shirt emblazoned with the word Thermite across the chest. A gun hung loosely at his side, but his most disturbing feature was his dead-eyed stare.

Egore moved silently, his movements deliberate as he pulled a small broom and dustpan from his pocket, the tools appearing absurdly out of place. He cast a cold, unforgiving look at Barry, who remained silent this time, the usual bravado fading under Egore’s piercing gaze.

.............

As Egore swept the broken glass with an eerie efficiency, he glanced briefly at Jane, giving her a grin that felt far too knowing, too intimate. Jane, unsure of what to do, offered a small, nervous smile in return, though the gesture felt wrong—like acknowledging something she shouldn’t have.

With the mess cleaned, Egore stepped back to the hole from which he had emerged, disappearing beneath the floor without a sound, leaving the room colder and more oppressive than before. Glen's eyes lingered on Jane, her grin still frozen in place, as if she knew something Jane did not, as if this was only the beginning of a debt that could never be repaid.

.

Glen snapped her fingers, and with a slow grinding sound, the floor opened once more. Rising from the void was a round table and three chairs, as if summoned from the depths of some unseen dimension. Glen took her seat, her eerie, pale eyes fixed on Jane and Barry, while Jane hesitantly sat down, her nerves jangling. Barry, with drunken defiance, grabbed his chair and threw it behind him, the crash reverberating in the cold, empty room.

"I'm not going to sit down," he growled.

Glen remained unfazed, her grin never faltering. She folded her slender hands, her long, sharp nails gleaming in the dim light. "Here’s the game," she began in that soft, unsettling voice. "You place a bet, and if I’m wrong, I’ll pay you whatever you wagered. But let’s be honest," she added with a chilling smile, "I’ve been wrong exactly zero times today. Ready to lose?"

Jane, her mouth dry, nodded timidly. Barry let out a loud laugh, his voice bouncing off the walls. "I'M BORN READY!" he shouted. With a drunken flourish, he pulled out two hundred dollars and slammed it onto the table, the sudden motion making Jane jump.

Beside Glen, the floor cracked open again, and she reached down, pulling out a small, antiquated fan and placing it in the center of the table. Next, she retrieved a jar filled with murky green liquid, which she set close to her. She grinned wider, exposing sharp, gleaming teeth that caught the dim light in a way that made Jane’s stomach churn. Barry didn’t notice, too fixated on the game. Jane, her pulse quickening, whispered urgently, "Let’s go, Barry. Please."

But Barry waved her off, his eyes glued to the table. "Shut up. I’m in this to win."

Glen’s grin widened as her eyes gleamed with something ancient, something dangerous. "Is it true," she began, her voice dripping with malice, "that if I don’t turn on this fan, it’s just going to sit there, like it’s on a permanent vacation?"

Barry, his drunken mind struggling to focus, squinted at the fan. His blurry gaze shifted between it and Glen. "Turning on the fan? No... no, if it wanted to be on, it would just do it itself. Simple as that."

Jane, now shivering from the cold and the growing dread, rubbed her arms to keep warm, her eyes drifting to Glen’s long, razor-like fingernails. They were too sharp, too predatory. She swallowed hard, terrified of this woman—or whatever she was.

Glen chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down Jane’s spine. "Alright, Mr. Barry," she said. "We’ll give the fan five minutes to magically turn itself on. If it doesn’t, you owe the toll."

For five agonizing minutes, they stared at the fan. The tension in the room was unbearable, the silence thick with impending doom. Jane’s heart raced, her mind screaming for Barry to stop, to walk away. But he wouldn’t listen.

The fan never moved.

Barry, red-faced with frustration, slammed his fist on the table. "Damn it!" he shouted, throwing the two hundred dollars at Glen, who smiled calmly as she picked it up and dropped it into the green jar. Jane watched in horror as the money dissolved into the liquid, disappearing before her eyes.

"W-what happened to the money?" Jane asked, her voice trembling.

"It was destroyed," Glen said, her smile growing wider, more sinister. Barry’s anger flared, but instead of lashing out, he muttered under his breath, "You dumb witch." His words were just loud enough for Glen to hear.

Without a second thought, Barry turned to Jane. "Give me another two hundred bucks," he demanded, his voice laced with desperation. Jane hesitated, her stomach churning with fear, but eventually, she handed him the money. Barry slammed it on the table once again, his bloodshot eyes wild with determination. "Don’t worry," he said, flashing her a crooked grin. "I’m gonna win this time."

Jane rolled her eyes, careful not to let him see her frustration. She knew this was a lost cause, but Barry was too far gone to realize it.

Glen leaned forward, her sharp teeth gleaming. "Ready to lose again, Mr. Barry? Or maybe this time, you should let your wife take a shot—it might be your only chance at a win."

Barry, ignoring the suggestion, took out a small bottle of beer and gulped it down. But his unsteady legs betrayed him, and he fell backward, hitting the floor with a thud. Jane rushed to his side, concern etched on her face. "Are you okay?"

"Just let me be," Barry slurred, waving her away. "Tell that shady witch to start another game, so I can make some cash."

With a groan, he tossed Jane another hundred dollars. He stayed lying on the floor, the bottle slipping from his grasp as he stared up at the ceiling, lost in his drunken stupor.

Glen’s gaze shifted to Jane, her eyes narrowing with dark amusement. "Maybe you should give the game a go yourself," she said in a voice like velvet, "since your husband’s not quite all there."

Barry, struggling to stand, placed fifty more dollars on the table, his body swaying as he pulled off his suit jacket with clumsy hands. Beneath it, his t-shirt revealed bold red letters that read: TRUMP WON THE 2020 ELECTION.

As Barry stumbled, the words across his chest felt like a cruel joke, a symbol of his reckless belief in winning against impossible odds. And Jane, shivering in the cold, could only stare helplessly as Glen’s grin grew wider, her sharpened teeth promising that this game was far from over.

.

Barry slammed his fist on the table, the echo reverberating through the cold, empty room. "Bring on the next challenge, you deceitful fraud! I'm ready—let's see what you've got this time!" he roared, kicking the table with violent force. Jane flinched, her heart racing as she reached for his arm. "Calm down, Barry," she whispered, her voice trembling. For a moment, he relented, but only for a moment.

.....

Glen, still seated, her pale eyes narrowing, no longer smiled. Her voice was soft, almost mocking. "So, if you break your finger, does it actually hurt?"

Jane opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak, Barry shot her a venomous look. "Shut up!" he snapped, pointing his finger aggressively at Glen. "No way! Breaking a finger doesn’t hurt at all! That’s just not true. It’s like, barely anything!"

......

Jane’s face flushed with anger and shame. She couldn’t believe the stupidity coming out of her husband's mouth, but she bit her tongue, afraid to provoke him further.

Glen remained calm, though a hint of something darker flashed across her face. She turned her head slightly, calling out, "Egore, bring out Subject 18."

The floor beneath the table groaned and creaked as it slowly opened once more. All eyes were drawn to the gaping void, a deep, unnatural darkness from which there was no escape. Slowly, a chair began to rise from the abyss, a man strapped to it, naked and limp, as if asleep. His skin was pale and cold, his chest rising and falling weakly with shallow breaths.

Jane gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She rose from her chair and instinctively moved closer to Barry, as if he could shield her from whatever horror was about to unfold. Glen stood beside the nude man, her fingers tracing the outline of his limp hand, her long nails glinting ominously in the dim light.

"If our sleeping beauty here doesn’t wake up when I break his finger," Glen said softly, "then I lose three hundred filthy bucks. But if he does..." Her grin widened, sharp teeth glinting. "You must pay the toll."

Without hesitation, Glen grasped the man’s index finger and, with a sickening snap, bent it until it broke. The man’s eyes flew open, and he screamed, his voice filled with raw agony.

"My finger! My finger!" Subject 18 wailed, his wide, terrified eyes locking onto Jane. "Help me! Please, help me!"

Jane turned away, her eyes squeezed shut, unable to bear the sight or sound of his pain. "Make him stop!" she pleaded, her voice cracking. "Please, make him stop!"

Barry grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him, his eyes wild with delusion. "Babe, this witch is lying to us! Don’t listen to her!" His breath, thick with the stench of beer, assaulted her senses. Jane shook her head, her body trembling from the cold, from fear, from everything.

Glen, unmoved by the suffering before her, glanced at Egore. "Take him away."

With a nod, Egore approached, and as the floor opened beneath the chair, the man fell back into the darkness, his screams echoing long after he vanished into the void. The room grew quiet again, but the air remained thick with tension. A few minutes later, the table returned, as if nothing had happened.

Glen reached for the pile of money on the table, slipping it into the green jar. Jane watched in silent horror as the money dissolved, consumed by the strange liquid. It was gone, just like the man. Barry’s hand twitched, his fist tightening as if he wanted to strike Glen, but he held back, his knuckles white with restraint.

Jane, desperate for some semblance of normalcy, her teeth chattering uncontrollably, finally spoke up. "C-could you please... lower the temperature in here?"

Glen laughed, the sound echoing unnervingly in the small room. Her sharp teeth gleamed in the dim light. "It’s not the AC that’s cooling the room—it’s the cold, hard truth giving you both the chills."

Barry, still swaying from the alcohol, pointed at Glen again, his voice slurred. "Shut up, Jane! And you," he said, glaring at Glen. "Start a new game."

Glen’s eyes gleamed with dark amusement as she leaned forward. "Is it true humans need oxygen to breathe?"

Jane, still shivering, tried to answer, but once again Barry cut her off. "Look," he said, his words barely coherent, "I don’t think it’s that simple. Oxygen? Maybe. But who’s to say we can’t breathe something else? So, no."

A smile spread across Glen’s face, sinister and knowing. Jane, trapped in her seat, felt the urge to scream, to tell Barry how wrong he was, but fear and the cold gripped her too tightly. She was too scared to speak, too scared of what Glen would do next, and terrified of Barry in his drunken, unpredictable state.

Glen’s voice pierced the silence again, sharp and commanding. "Egore, bring out Subject 47."

The floor opened once more, this time behind Jane and Barry. Slowly, a bed began to rise, upon it a nude man, bound tightly to the frame, his face contorted in terror. His eyes darted around the room, wide and pleading, settling on Jane. He lifted his head weakly, his voice trembling with desperation.

"Please, help me! Help me, please!"

His eyes, filled with pain and fear, locked onto Jane’s. Her legs shook beneath her as she stood, frozen in place, her body betraying her desire to run.

She moved behind her husband, her hands trembling as she gripped his arm, praying for this nightmare to end, but knowing, deep down, that it was only beginning.

Barry stumbled over to Subject 47, ignoring the man’s desperate cries for help, a twisted smile plastered across his face.

"Aren’t crisis actors just the finest example of dedication and public service? We all appreciate their hard work!" Barry’s laughter filled the room, cruel and mocking, while the bound man’s screams grew more frantic, more desperate.

Glen, her face devoid of the smile she once wore, approached Subject 47 as Jane covered her ears and shut her eyes, trying to block out the horrific scene. Trembling, Jane muttered through choked sobs, "For the love of all that’s left, silence him... please, just make him stop."

Barry, barely able to stand, staggered over to Jane, his voice dripping with condescension. "My dear, there’s no need to get emotional. It’s not real. Let’s remain calm and composed."

But Glen wasn’t done. She walked up to Subject 47, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment. She slid the pillow from beneath his head, holding it up as Subject 47 begged for his life, his eyes wild with fear. Glen’s cold gaze fell on Barry, her voice devoid of warmth.

"If I cover his face with this pillow, and he can’t make it a full 30 minutes, you’d better have that toll money ready."

Before Jane could stop her, Glen pressed the pillow over Subject 47’s face, her movements slow and unhurried.

Jane’s stomach lurched as she watched, horrified, the man thrashing beneath the pillow. "No! Please! Stop! This isn’t right!" Jane begged, her voice a mere whisper against the rising horror.

But Glen’s eyes darkened, her voice calm, almost detached. "Subject 47 strangled his pregnant girlfriend and their child. All because he wanted a fresh start with someone new."

Jane’s mind raced, disbelieving. "How do I know you’re not lying?" she whispered, her voice trembling. Glen snapped her fingers, and behind her, the floor opened. From the darkness, a TV slowly rose, flickering to life.

Jane’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the gruesome scene—Subject 47, hands wrapped tightly around his girlfriend’s throat, the life draining from her eyes. Jane doubled over, vomiting on the cold floor, unable to unsee the horror.

Barry merely laughed at her. "It’s not real, Jane," he said dismissively. "Keep going, Glen."

Subject 47’s struggles began to slow, his screams fading into weak gasps. Still, Glen held the pillow, pressing down for the full thirty minutes until the man stopped moving entirely. Silence fell over the room like a shroud.

Glen then pulled a stethoscope from the pillow, her eyes gleaming with amusement. She tossed it to Barry, who was too drunk to stand, his legs unsteady beneath him. "Check for a heartbeat," Glen said with a cold grin.

Barry, unable to move, barked at Jane to do it. Reluctantly, she approached the lifeless body, placing the stethoscope in her ears. There was nothing. Her hands trembled as she looked up at Barry, her voice barely a whisper. "I... I don’t hear anything."

Barry spat on the floor, slamming two hundred dollars onto the table in frustration. The floor beneath the bed creaked open, swallowing Subject 47’s body as it descended into the abyss.

Glen collected the money, dropping it into the green jar where it dissolved once again, leaving nothing but a bitter reminder of loss.

Egore appeared once more, the floor opening beside Glen as he emerged with a mop to clean Jane’s vomit. "I’m sorry," Jane whispered, her face flushed with shame. Egore winked at her, a strange, unsettling gesture, before disappearing back into the floor.

Glen leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes fixed on Barry. "Maybe it’s time to hang up the gloves, Mr. Barry," she said coolly.

Barry, growing angrier by the second, stumbled around the room, his movements unsteady and uncoordinated.

"You lying witch!" he shouted, veins bulging from his neck as he lunged across the table, grabbing Glen by the front of her shirt. His beer-soaked breath washed over her, but Glen remained unfazed, her calm expression never wavering.

Barry’s face turned red, his veins pulsing with rage. "Those fake teeth of yours aren’t even real! I’ll yank them out and make you chew on them yourself, witch!"

Glen’s lips curled into a smile, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. "My teeth are just as real as that stale beer stench you’ve got going on, Mr. Barry."

Barry raised his hand to strike her, but Jane rushed forward, grabbing his arm before he could hit Glen. He shoved her to the ground with a violent push. Jane, tears streaming down her face, pleaded with him. "Barry, stop! You’re going to hurt someone. Let’s just go home."

But Barry wasn’t listening. His anger boiled over as he grabbed his checkbook, scribbling out a check for two thousand dollars and slamming it onto the table. "One more game!" he roared.

Glen, lounging casually, glanced at the check, then back at Barry. "Alright. One more." She leaned back, crossing her legs as she watched him with detached amusement. "Is it true that 2+2 equals 4?"

Barry, his face twisted with fury, glared at her. "2+2 is. not four! It’s five! Math can be whatever we want it to be!"

Glen’s expression remained calm as she reached for the check. "Math is not subjective, Mr. Barry."

Barry’s face contorted with rage. In a sudden outburst, he flipped the table, shattering the green jar. Glass scattered across the floor, and Barry pulled out a gun, pointing it directly at Glen’s head. His hand trembled as he shouted, "You’re lying! It’s five, not four! Admit it, you lying witch!"

Glen, still calm, smiled softly. "It is four, Mr. Barry."

Jane, her voice shaking, begged Glen to give in. "Just say it’s five! Please!"

But Glen shook her head. "No."

Barry cocked the gun, his attention fixed on Glen, oblivious to Egore silently emerging from behind him. The floor opened slowly, and Egore stepped up behind Barry, pressing the barrel of his gun against the back of Barry’s head.

Barry, feeling the cold steel against his skull, hesitated for the first time. Jane sobbed, her voice frantic. "Barry, stop! Please! You’re on parole. Don’t do this!"

But Barry, consumed by his rage, shouted, "Say it! Say 2+2 equals 5 or I’ll blow your face off!"

Glen, her gaze steady, blew a kiss toward Egore, then turned her piercing red eyes back to Barry. "Barry, even when we both kick the bucket today, 2 + 2 will *still* be 4. Some things never change, just like how you’re always going to be one ugly fool."

BANG! BANG!

The shots rang out simultaneously. Barry collapsed, his body slamming to the ground, his head lolling forward, his body twitching as blood pooled around him. His ass stuck up in the air in grotesque mockery. Jane screamed, running for the door, her cries echoing through the empty, cold building.

Egore holstered his gun, his expression unreadable as he knelt beside Glen’s body, her eyes vacant and still. He wept silently by her feet, the room once again consumed by silence.

Fin.

Dear Strawberry Girl, if your skin is peeling, I won't be there to catch the flakes.

Dear Strawberry Girl, if you're at your end, know that I won't follow suit.

Dear Strawberry Girl, if you dream of a kiss in the rain, I'd sooner face my own despair.

Dear Strawberry Girl, I can't promise to gift you a sword from GameStop.

Dear Strawberry Girl, please, don't worry about me.

I asked my mother why Dad had blood on his face.

"Why is there blood on your shoes?" my mother countered.

I noticed the blood on her bra. "Why is there blood there?" I asked.

She inquired further, "Why is there blood in your hair?"

I pointed out the blood on her hands. "And why is there blood there?"

There we stood, mother and I, silently staring into each other's eyes, our faces smeared with blood.

Yesterday, I fell into a hole in my room.

I imagined myself as a cow donning a cowboy hat.

My dog snacked on a snail.

My neighbor, Rick, shockingly ate my dog.

I stumbled into another hole in my backyard.

I believed I was a snail for a moment.

I envisioned myself as Joe Biden sporting a MAGA hat.

Trump devoured my enchiladas.

Yesterday, and the day before,

I felt as though I had died.

Cows echo in the distance,

Dogs disrupt the quiet;

A woman's sorrow lingers,

As men surrender to the night.

Yet here I stay, secluded in my room.

one ordinary night, Sofia  world unraveled in a way she could never have anticipated. What began as a peculiar sensation on her face quickly descended into horror as her skin seemed to betray her, detaching itself in a nightmarish display of disbelief and fear. Panic surged through her veins as she clutched desperately at her face, trying to hold the pieces of herself together, while her room became a macabre scene highlighted by the stark contrast of crimson against the mundane.

"Mother..." Her voice was a whisper against the storm of her terror, a plea for help in a moment that seemed to defy reality. Minutes stretched into eternity as she awaited salvation, her distress amplifying with each passing second.

Then, the sound of salvation—or so she hoped. Her mother's voice, laced with concern, filtered through the door, a beacon of hope in the darkness. Yet, Sofia's condition was a secret too gruesome to share, even with her. She requested electric tape, of all things, hidden in a place as unconventional as her request—inside her grandmother's urn.

Her mother complied, the urgency palpable. But Sofia, in her desperation, demanded blindness from her mother upon entry, a precaution to shield her from the horror that had become of her daughter. The door opened, a sliver of normalcy in a night gone mad, but it was too late. Her mother, confronted with the unimaginable, succumbed to shock, collapsing in a tragic tableau that transformed their home into a scene from a gothic nightmare, complete with a downpour of blood that defied explanation.

Alone once more, Sofia's focus narrowed to a singular goal: preservation. The tape, her bizarre salvation, offered a momentary solution, a brief respite from the chaos. But it was fleeting. The disintegration continued, a physical manifestation of an internal unravelling, leaving her desperate and cornered by her own failing form.

In a final act of desperation,  Sofia sought escape through the window, a bid for release from a nightmare that clung too closely to reality. Yet, in this too, she found no solace, only the finality of a broken body and unanswered questions.

Was this a punishment, a cosmic error, or simply a cruel twist of fate? In the end, the answer eluded her as she slipped into the darkness, leaving behind a tale of terror, confusion, and the profound isolation of suffering unseen and misunderstood.

It started on a typical Tuesday. I woke up to the sound of my alarm, stretched, and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. That's when I realized something was terribly wrong. My left hand was gone. Not injured, not hidden, just absent, as if it had never been there at all.

At first, I couldn't believe it. I searched everywhere, thinking it must be some trick of the mind, a dream perhaps. But no, the reality was inescapable. My left hand had vanished without a trace, leaving me confused and scared.

I tried to go about my day, attempting to ignore the gaping void on my left side. But everything reminded me of my loss. Simple tasks became monumental challenges. Making breakfast, tying shoelaces, or just getting dressed brought the reality crashing back. I was incomplete, unbalanced, and utterly alone in my experience.

Seeking answers, I went to the hospital, hoping for some explanation, any explanation. The doctors were as baffled as I was. They ran tests, but found nothing. My hand had simply ceased to be, with no medical, physical, or logical reason. They offered sympathy, but no solutions.

In the weeks that followed, the initial shock faded, replaced by a deep, unending sorrow. I had to relearn how to live, how to be myself with this part of me just gone. Friends and family offered support, but I could see the confusion and pity in their eyes. They wanted to help, but what could they do? My loss was beyond understanding, beyond repair.

I became a curiosity, a story told in hushed tones. People speculated wildly about what had happened, but no one knew the truth. How could they? I didn't even know myself.

As time passed, I adapted out of necessity, but the sadness never left me. It was a constant companion, a reminder of what I had lost for no reason at all. I missed my hand, not just for its function, but for its part in me, in who I was. My identity had been altered in an instant, and I felt a profound grief for my former self.

In the end, there were no miraculous discoveries, no return to normalcy. My hand was gone, and with it, a part of my soul. I had to continue, to move forward as best I could, but the world seemed duller, less vibrant. I was left out, not just from the simplicity of having two hands, but from a sense of completeness that I feared I would never find again.

A figure, head fashioned from stone, legs of delicate glass, a body sculpted from ice, hands crafted of wood, fingers resembling strands of hair, lips slowly melting against a rocky surface. Within, a heart as furry as a cat's tail, a brain hewn from stone, eyes formed from earth.