Morning is lovely for most, but for me it only brings terror. The faces- oh dear- the faces. They line the halls in a terrorizing row of dusty solemnity. One man's face I study; his skin sags revealing the pink under his eyes as if his face was half melted. His hair is a particularly repulsive shade of green. I turn away and continue along. Their eyes caress my back like an eerily forlorn lover watching her husband being lower into an early grave, arsenic sitting heavy in his dead belly.
I knew I shouldn't have put them in jars.