She crept through the hallways like a squeaky toy. Little sounds escaped her mouth as she pulled herself along the wall for support, blood trailing behind her mangled hands. The smell of burnt rubber and licorice suffused her clothes. A dumb mistake at a candy shop, possibly a fatal one.

As she started to remember what had just happened, the tiniest cry slipped out.

She couldn’t help it.

Even now, her entrails dragged behind her, slopping like the pigs her father cared for years ago. Dirty, fat, and pink, they often rolled in dust and grime because it never rained enough for mud. Always oinking, always so noisy and bothersome. When they did get mud, the squeamish cries that left their snouts closely mirrored the ones leaving her own.

It. Hurt. So. Much. And at this point, she couldn’t tell if it was the pre-death symptoms settling in—exhaustion, anger, hallucinations—but the lights in the hall were fading. She was fading. She was