Those huge blocky letters scrawled in black paint across the walls. All those words our father hated so much he kept them inside until they curdled and festered and rotted him from the center out. Before he’d taken his rifle up to the roof of the building he worked in, he lanced some of the infection by writing out those secret thoughts. Things like WE AREN’T REAL, and, THEIR LAUGHTER IS LIKE BREATHING SMOKE, and one in particular I think about a lot—NONE OF THIS IS HAPPENING.
