It’s neither man nor woman nor of woman borne. All you know is you want to fuck it. You want the distinction of who fucks who to be blurred. You want its wire-like tentacles to bite into your flesh until the sting makes you want to scream. But you don’t scream, do you? You’d rather die than give it the satisfaction. So you pull the wires tighter instead, spitting blood and broken teeth in defiance and outrage as your every orifice burns and bleeds with the frenzy of its onslaught.
When it’s finally over, when it finally sees fit to let you stop, you pick yourself up off the floor and cook it a meal. It becomes your identity. When someone asks you a question, you let it answer. You know that eventually it will kill you. You learn to accept those terms.
Until one day, you wake up in a blood-soaked bed, alone. You don’t know when it will be back.
To try and find help, turn to page 38.
To opt for the safety of the known commodity by doing nothing, turn to page 14.