Kiyoshi awoke with big drops of cold water splashing onto his face. He was confused, unsure where he was or how he got there. He was in horrible agony. His throat was so raw and sore that it felt swollen together, and he could barely breathe. Empty bottles, a broken clock, and old moldy clothes were piled atop him.

He remembered. The killer’s hands were around his neck, choking the life from him and then blackness. The killer must’ve thought Kiyoshi was dead because the next thing Kiyoshi remembered was watching, from overhead, from outside of his flesh, as the killer disposed of his body in an illegal dump.

Once Kiyoshi realized that he was lying in a pile of trash, he wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t dead. He tried to scream for help, but his larynx was crushed, and he couldn’t make a sound. Slowly, painstakingly, he clawed his way out from underneath the rubbish, as if digging himself out of his grave. Every move he made was excruciating.

He stood up, on legs as shaky as a newborn colt’s. He looked down and gasped. He was naked, and he could see that where his cock belonged there was nothing but congealed blood and hamburger. He couldn’t control his aching asshole, and diarrhea poured down his leg from the force of gravity.

Kiyoshi, now mangled and bruised, had been a handsome lad, sleek and muscular, with pale skin like dried cornhusks. His oval face was angular and delicate. His dark almond eyes were slightly curved downward. The pouring rain made the purple die in his drooping mohawk run down his face like violet tears.

His heart pounded in his chest. He labored for each stinging breath. He forced himself to calm down, as his head and limbs were tingling, and he feared he would faint.

He was at the bottom of an embankment. He climbed up the hill and stumbled to the side of a road. His hopes of flagging down a vehicle waned when he realized the road was dirt, and the countryside was isolated, so he picked a direction at random and started walking, slowly and painfully, one foot in front of the other.