Emblem, Shroud, Transplant

A stream of consciousness exercise.

Inspired by the above 3-word prompt from the criminally talented

Edith Bow

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There’s an emblem on the sheet. No. Call it what it is. It’s a shroud, twisting into imaginary shapes and secret words. Emblem seared into the skin at the base of my neck. Red and angry and now I’m marked. 

That’s the end. It burns. Chews away the skin and it’s clinical and chemical, nothing personal. Impersonal because I’m not a person. Something less. Strange and odd and eternally other and therefore a threat.

Threats need to be dealt with. But there are uses, always uses. Even for people like me, like us. We get the emblem and we’re marked. The real people know who we are and what we are and can use us accordingly.

Breeders broodmares sex slaves servants of all kinds. It doesn’t matter. What you do doesn’t matter. We’re not people.

Not anymore.

Now we’re food and entertainment. We’re tortured and tested. Use for organ transplants. Can save on anesthesia that way. Very economical.

People love to save a few pennies.

Even if there are fewer and fewer people. And the ones remaining all look and sound and think the same.

And no one is happy because we’re all transplants from one home one place one world and you can’t remove half the ecosystem without totally fucking the rainforest. 

More than half. The weak ones and the scared ones and the ones who were others and the ones you made monsters of. 

Our organs beat in your children’s chests. We take out your garbage and serve as your test subjects and you take and take and take and kill us in droves. Endless and unstoppable and legal, always legal.

I’m wrapped in a shroud and I’m not getting out and I had a home and a family and a life and it’s gone now. It’s gone and soon I’ll be gone too. 

Cut up for spare parts and the rest ground up for fertilizer.

But the shroud will have my blood and the emblem will haunt your dreams and taunt your waking hours. Your kings will fall or they will not. 

You can’t erase people. Not the way you think.

Because we’re all parts and pieces and cutting away essential parts never leads to anything good. Even if you don’t know what they’re for. Even if you don’t understand them or like them or outright fucking hate them.

You’ll use my eyes to look upon destruction and celebrate death. My eyes will look back in the mirror when you smile and I will see you for who you are. And so will you. The emblem will be all you can see at night, and your own ugliness all you can see in the day.

And we’ll continue on. In one way or another.

And we will erode you from the inside out.