Work Text:
The thumb-scuff stutters, a
mechanical cough in the dark
where the walls lean in too
close; the air is thick with
the smell of ionised wool and
the sharp, sulfurous ghost of a
match-head.
A tiny, orange tooth bites
into the quiet, chewing through
the static until the skin
flinches; the room tilts,
spilling the shadows like
ink across floorboards.
The buzzing in the skull
quiets to a dull, red hum,
leaving a small, angry
crater to anchor the body
before it floats away.