ibAuthor's Notes:/b Inspired by a silly forum thread on entitled "Ahh! Zombies/Dead people! What would you do?"/i

p

buPsychotic/b/u

They tell me I am unwell. That I must go with them, where they can take care of me. They are telling me to leave my sanctuary, so that I can be safe.

Safe or Saved? I asked. They smiled, uncomprehending.

Saved To or Saved Away? I asked. And they took me away.

They said I was broken, unsafe for consumer consumption. They told me I could hurt myself if left alone. But that's okay, because they can help me. Fix me. Make me whole again, like everyone else.

But the light hurts me, there.

Relax, They said, and tied my right arm to my left and my left arm to my right. I am confused. I cannot tell which arm is which, or maybe I have none? I know I have one… … somewhere.

You have to stay focused, They said, Live in the real world. Is this the real world? Yes. I see… and then I float away on candy-coloured clouds and giant grandmothers' quilts and seas of white and green.

Run, They said, and stripped me of the green clothes of the real world, that tied my left arm to my right and my right arm to my left. Yes, I am certain now. I have two arms, one right, one left.

The lights are dead, outside.

They told me to go, get out of here.

Am I well? I asked. They smiled, incomprehensive. Go, save yourself, They said, and bled.

Save To or Save Away? I asked. And they sent me away.

Live in the real world, They said. Is this the real world? Yes.

But it looks just like my world, Doctor, where nobody really dies the first time and everyone wants to eat me. Just like in the movies, and the only thing that works is a good crowbar. Am I unwell again, Doctor?

Doctor?

Oh dear, you're dead too. Now you'll get up and try to eat me too.

You see? Now I suppose I have to smash your head in too.

I'd better go find a crowbar.