It’s a post-apocalyptic, war-torn-humanity sort of scenario. We’re forced along a mountainous path. There are no side paths; it’s a one-end, dead-end road. And it ends with a dozen of them. They’ve been awaiting us all along.
There’s nowhere else to go, no other paths to take. So I keep walking until one of them grabs me, and I let him.
There’s nowhere else to go, and I don’t fight back. I know what’s coming, and it’s better to not fight back, I know that much. So he pulls my pants and underwear down, and he’s already hard. I’m not fighting back. But he wants me to cry, he wants me to struggle, if only just a little. And he’s prolonging the entry.
So I do, I cry, though only for the show.
And when he cums, he’s no longer pinning me to the wall. I slide down, a spineless, boneless sack of flesh on the dirt road in convulsions of grief, pain, but mainly grief for humanity. Blood and semen trickle out of me, finding their way down my thighs into a messy whole.
I want to burst open, but it won’t let me. This life won’t let me.
My mind’s as foggy as my sight. I try to put them in place. Waking is hard. Sight refocusing harder. There are two bodies next to me. I try again. Once more, to focus, to refocus. The bed, the bodies. There, refocused.
A ceiling, like any other; a room, unlike any I know. I’m neither dressed, nor naked.
I’d like to be naked. I wish I was naked. But as it is, pants down to my knees, I’m not naked.
There’s blood on the sheets, and more blood on my thighs, and theses bodies are slowly coming to life the same speed as mine. I need to exit the scene.
I’m nowhere near the door when they come to life.
You signed it. You signed yourself up. They hold up a piece of scrap paper, signed, by me, for whatever they did.