The city of Veridiction smells like a slowly sinking concrete skiff. Drifts strangely upon the crashing sense of a burnt fume plastic ocean. Bowels groan of subjacent rumblings. Crack rock upon stone like an exploding ocean of earthen storms upon the braying screams of detritus landslip coughs. Gilings and smoke mix the sky sanguine sun a fog in the horizon like a warning mist of signals from long conquered dead civilizations; replaces history for someone else's narrative. Whistles from the below and out of the nook orifice apertures of collapsing ceilings enshrouding gothic postmodern aesthetic architecture in the broken shelf taste of substratum chromatic green iron purple orange vein bedrock. Black red silt brown alluvium. The earth's an eternally closing sarcophagus lid. Limestones the headstones of the underground.

Jane senses the invisible hundred hums of active portals open and close and open again to close again with each city step. Nothing galvanic in the underground of what should be bustle. Feeling of static electricity tingles tips like socks rub on carpet at the touch of a metal door handle. Good intimation that the inhabitants of this simulation are at least fleeing from the all and out war worn devastation. Flee the dead and buried future. That's why this place is a ghost city and the underground is a charnel house.

Witnesses mounds of closed compound fracture limb torsos along the stepping travel. Rist crooks over her shoulder. Lover legs and arms dangle like a stringless marionette with each lumbering barefoot fall through what was pavement and asphalt streets. Presently exist a mangle of torn skin leather tethers. Dents of car crash metal Mansfield corpse debris.

Jane's path holds a moment of obstruction in the form of a pink bunny ear hat clad toddler and a belly bulge barefoot mother in a blue moo moo. Blue. They meet her gravity by the doorless door casing remains of a gutless hardware storefront in the city's rolling hill district. Blinks of the mother's stop motion eyes are bare and grizzly. Jane doesn't stop to ask a word. The woman stares as Jane walks by with her dangly lover over her shoulder. The tiny human and the unborn child in the mother's womb turn in the opposite direction. Flee down the street. Mother carries a silver framing hammer and a black torn red school-child backpack. Toddler hands hold a red and dirty white polka dot blanket. Disappear into the vanish of an alley. A portal. Escape. But what's on the other side of such an escape?

Jane thinks about the way station. Wonders how many people may have already met an angry jawless bloodthirsty Paula. But through the open portals, she can't sense the revenant's presence or essence in those or this place. Maybe the monster gave up. Went back to the mire girl's world where the revenant's dead sister lays like a time haunting breach upon the dark forest beach. And maybe Janice and Patricia aren't entirely dead. Patricia, at least. But she also thought a heartbeat held an armless clock's tick in the mind of Janice. Could've sworn such a thing. Maybe they exist together in the simulation of each other's afterlife. Really? If so, can Jane sense the afterlife?

Sighs. Spits bad breath. Nods to herself. Needs to urinate.

Hopes the eschatological thought may be true. Could find those who're dead as she was once dead in this life. Maybe she never left this death. Could she sense Rhie if she really tried to? Things that come into her mind and paint an interpretation of what they mean upon her subconscious walls seem a wonder at times. And there're so many other horrible wonders to witness upon the trails of this curse of conurbation.

Moves upon the world. Runs. Stumbles. Balances. Sweats in Gregor's hoodie. Mingles her nudity with his musk. Feels a smoky breeze touch fluffy bare loins. Barefoot upon everything just as she's always liked such.

Comes across a kind of Leonard Merkava in the ruins of a slightly vertical street. Soldiers congregate in camouflage of earthen coffin tombstone. Helmets like devil horns. Jagged rock bodies with Honeybadger armament. A Ghost is shackled to the Merkava like a human shield. The burnt body of a child lays up against what was a building. Laughter interrupts her thoughts. Leonard's converse to one another. So much funny in their pitch. One throws a rock at the shackled Ghost. More laughter.

Jane avoids by climbing the wall of a ruin up to the bombed out crenellation of a roof. Toes and fingers between the bricks. Feels her strength has grown. Hasn't a problem carrying Rist to the top. Skip jumps from grout line to flat roof. Runs. Fast. Kicks dust. Jumps off the remnants of a ledge. Flies through the air above the Leonards below. Lands silently upon the unharmed rooftop of the parallel building. Continues in such a way across the Rolling Hill suburbs of Veridiction.

Finds a certain sanctuary when she decides to touch ground again. Jane and Rist finally hunker in the topography of the main first reality central park. A verdant vanquish. Lays Rist's head down with care. Collects the immediate thoughts of her senses. Hills of soft lawn nature occupy the cast middle of border trees and asphalt paths and rows of bent and single petal flowers. Barefoot strides away from Rist. Crouches in dirt. Pisses in the flower bed. A few stems remain untrammelled. Wipes with fallen leaves. Stands to walks. Finds rainwater in a upright plastic coffee cup. Quenches. Down the path a ways. Twisted blue bike frame lays like a memory which never was and will never really be. The wheels of a tri axle dump truck have reversed over it. Abandoned a few meters from the bike. Beside lays an empty checkerboard shoe within toe length of someone's spilled paper bag groceries. A book spines open but upside down like the story within is trying to shade itself from the gloomy moment. Maybe the story's falling from the heights of despair into the fathoms of burial below. Eats a piece of discarded bread from a torn paper bag by the bike. Pulls out an unopened water bottle from the same.

Breeze trees sway toward Jane like their bark crease crooks need to tell secrets but won't because they're not meant for her. A raven shouts caws in its language toward her for a few moments from a hidden branch of the same guttural beaky sound that she's tasted in times past. Seems to stop as if such feathers recognize her. Changes its tune to prophetic silence. Jumps. Spreads. Flaps. Exposes itself into the sky above the trees like a foreshadow against a cloud cover red herring star named Sol. As it reaches a distance away, a rank sharp sound hits. Jane watches the avian explode at the pierce of a gunshot into a tiny coal cloud of feather. Knows the sable bird was just above the hospital. Fucking Leonards.

Focuses from her surroundings to her one and only. The skull mask lady lays upon the soft unkempt grass like a body hidden in a sea of tickling un-mown waves beside the border of the asphalt path. Such turns in the distance around a corner toward the main street where the first reality hospital fumes under siege. The hostilities increase in volume. A panic of boot heel stomp gun crack commotion bullhorn curse vulgarity hollers loudly at the sense receptors of listening. Smite yells and cry moans the suffering screamers. Climbs through the orderly measure of specific fractionally separate epithet trees.

Sits on her bare rump beside her lover. Crisscross applesauce. Waits for the skull mask lady to come to life. Doesn't regret the bruised cheek. Places the water bottle beside. Deviates her side eye toward the elms of the empty overgrown public park. Ignores the death being carried out in the place of healing. Below the branch and bole on the opposite side of the park are rows upon rows of untrammelled black and grey flowers which rest in their beds like silk misting micro plastic pollen above each anther. In one bed, an ornamental stone lays out of place like a broken Sinai tablet. Funnels a hollow bellow. Calls like jealous hostile mockery beyond listening. The words written upon it translate as "Terra was here."

'Yes she was. From a past that I wish to forget.'

Looks past the carved white marble stone. Vision focuses. Notices a man in a tree. But not in it, really. More like stuck on it. More like nailed to it. Crucified by some faux Roman on the large branches. Jane grimaces. Grimaces at the memory of such previous horrors. Blue tarps and dark forests and fallen Ferris wheels.

'So, whoever's in power here is the real monster. The Janice of this world wasn't the evil Janice. I'll find out who.'

Jane senses Rist's eyes open like the overcast sky of the world they've just abandoned; collapsed but possibly carrying on. Witnesses the beautiful grey. Bright black stares at malachite for a long moment. Torturous death screams echo from the distance of the hospital. A double barrel pellet gun shot cracks the moment into moments. The skull mask lady sits up on her elbows. Twists her head with the pain of a blue bruise cheek. Watch one another like language. Jane understands the tension which exists between them now even if Rist isn't sure yet. There may forever be an unwanted taint between them. Jane has a hard time even looking at Rist in this moment. Doesn't want to feel this way. Finds no choice to feel otherwise. Still loves her and always will.

"I'm not sorry I killed her. She was evil."

"You're mistaken. It wasn't her. That woman wasn't the Grand Ghost who tried to kill us. That piece of shit died a long time ago. You killed someone else. Someone who didn't deserve your wrath. And now everyone's dead because you killed her and accidentally clipped the jaw off a powerful revenant in the process."

Rist's mouth opens slightly. Closes. Averts gaze away from Jane. Notices the words on the stone on the asphalt path.

The mire girl stands. Knows Rist can't look her in the eye. Not on this day. Turns her back to the skull mask lady. Walks toward the hospital.

"Where are you going?"

"To get my axe. I can feel its vibe. Calls to me. It's over there. The hospital. And someone's been using it. I can feel it. I can feel it like a missing limb. A portal's there, too. Portals within portals."

"Jane..."

"Don't follow me."

"Where are we?"

"The first reality. And we can't go back to where we were. Death is what will come to us if we ever go there again. The Paula revenant will kill you on site. Stay here. Just stay here. I'll be back when I'm back."

"Jane..."

"Look, I love you. I forgive you. But listen to me now. Don't follow me. Don't put me in the position that I was just in. I don't want to be a team player this time. You can't control your rage, you never really could. And it's ok. But to do what I'm about to do, I need control. I don't want to fear for your life. Please understand. Stay away. Rest. Don't follow me."

The mire girl's done talking. Turns back toward destiny. Picks up her bare feet. Runs for the bent path and around the bend toward the hospital which slowly comes within her vision. Isn't tired. Feels her body as it feels her.

Brutal bang cracks cut the air like a cement forest's being raised for nothing, like overproduction under capitalism. Leaves the path for the car crash street. Witnesses the white concrete steps and platform at the beginning of the hospital are infested with blue bulbous armour Leonard soldiers. No camouflage with this group. There's confidence in each soldiers way of things. They've won. Smells their fascist minty swagger. Some take sledgehammers to what appears to be a single decorative wall. A war memorial of sorts. Others point rifles at kneeling prisoners. Nurses and doctors and old men in suits. Obvious patients.

A group of Leonards level their elbows. Shoot bullets and pellets into the group of scared civilians. Blood mists. Sprays the white concrete like a fresh dead rabbit in the snow. Red on white. Blood runs in rivulets down the white steps, thick and thin. Stains epistemology with the ontological.

Jane becomes furious. Feels her depths twitch. Mind hums. Feels a heartbeat within her heartbeat like two infinity mirrors reflecting back and forth in a next dimension pendulum eternity. Smiles like a dead raven within herself.

Something coil climbs out of the abyss within the forever glass enclosure of whatever Jane actually is. Creaks crackles croaks like brittle bone burnt teeth. The mire girl smirks into herself. Goosebump body smirks back. Speaks with the distorted reverb of an old record player. Clasps her rope spine. Pulls itself up and into the playhouse of her brain.

"Hello Jane."

'Hello.'

"It seems my atoms need satisfying again. Shall we both have some fun this time?"

'I think so. The bottom's no longer the top.'

"Yes. The bottom is, once again, no longer the top."

Eyes hum in a glow like watching from a yellow brick road distance at the Kantian Emerald City spectacle.

'But how can I exist in the daylight with you around me?'

"Oh, dear sweet Jane. I was having fun torturing you. Confusing you the last time. I was having fun...the many "I's" were having so much fun at your expense. But we're  not enemies anymore, are we Jane? No, not in this predicament. I'm here because you truly want me to commit murder if you fall. And when you do, this world ends much more than it already has. All of the worlds shall end."

'Then let's drill holes in their faces so their deaths can breath.'

"That's the spirit, Jane."

Still wears the oversize coal black hoodie which Gergor gave her. Nothing else. Skips barefoot sole slaps toward the hospital of dead meaty mound bodies and the metallic taste of such epilogue. Holds a smile deep within her molecules and upon her singularity because she can smell her axe. Such of it tingles. Feels the revenant power within. Pulls her dasein toward the Leonard soldiers and the cavernous wreck of doors beyond. Makes her giddily grin at the flesh and blood dead souls pleading for vengeance.

Soldiers notice Jane. One laughs without a real thought or care about harm from what's grinning at them.

"Hey, we missed a little Ghost. Someone shoot her insides out."

A Leonard soldier points a HoneyBadger at Jane. Smirks. Blasts. A puff of smoke exits the chamber as the bullet goes through Jane's chest like lava below the three ancient bullet hole scars. The hot shrapnel doesn't faze the mire girl in the least. The bullet hole instantly melts. Heals like Jane doesn't exist enough to be truly damaged in such a way anymore.

The first Leonard she grasps ahold of points a rifle at the ground and tries to shoot her feet off. Jane jumps up acrobatically. Avoids the pellets. Springs upside down over the soldier, her legs and feet vertical, hoodie falling at her ribs. Exposes her sunshine. Twists the soldier's head and helmet into an unnatural floppiness in her choking grip position as she lets gravity guide her. Lands back upon the earth with an osteal crunch. Unwraps her arms from the soldiers face. The Leonard falls in a heap like a strawman full of its own weight in bullshit, head twisted backward.

The next soldier in her way tries to stab at Jane with a karambit. Dodges the blade aiming at her face. Grasps the soldier in her arms. Breaks the blue armour apart like a hollow Easter chocolate bunny. Bites down. Wrenches layers of skin and muscle with her gutting fingers. Chews. Pushes her arm inside and up to her elbow and then squishes her shoulder within the guts of the Leonard. Feels around into the chest of the soldier. Squeezes her fists upon organs. Tickles the windpipe with her fingernails. Burrows her torso inside. Rips a hole big enough to climb her entire body under the rib cage. She squeezes innards out of each side of the spine. Severs the bones and nerves. Protrudes all the way through. Crawls out of her victim like a burst torso birthing a crimson shit decorative demon. Spine flops on her nose. Touches her forehead in a line as her head and shoulders and torso climb onto the concrete. Entirely exits on palms and toes. Stands like a veil of sanguine. Skips to the next soldier. Leaves bloody footprints with each bare step. The horror show soldier finally collapses in stringy broken limp post human bits. Jane seems faster than time.

Every Leonard's frozen in terror at what they've witnessed. Jane smiles like God creating Lucifer.

"Boo!"

Half the remaining soldiers trip back and away. Turn and run. Want no part of Jane. Those who stay are sorely brave and sufficiently stupid.

The remaining Leonards eye Honeybadgers and shotguns and scopes at every inch of Jane. One soldier brandishes a Falcata and cuts the air in preparation. A one eye lieutenant cracks her whip at Jane's face. The mire girl catches the scourging flagrum in its lash by her right hand. Pulls the woman toward her with the force of a Tuurngait. Jane wraps the Roman knots of ox hide and sharp iron around the lieutenant's throat. Tightens the leather. Throws the lieutenant around. Abruptly halts. Places her foot into the lieutenant's back. Creates enough pressure to cut through the throat and severe the head. The one eye face dangles away from the neck until Jane kicks the Leonard in the back. Almost tears the lieutenant's whole head off. Falls dead with her elongated snake like spine exposed yet still attached to the twitching death stare blinks.
Bullets coarse through Jane's legs and chest. Lava. Instant healing. Almost doesn't hurt.

The soldier with the falcata lunges. Seems to think all Jane needs is a final blow. Swings and slices Jane's leg at the thigh and across her stomach. Pays with his life as the mire girl catches him. Bites up into his jugular. Chews his adams apple off. Vermillion sprays like a rain cloud. Spits the morsel back into his face.

The mire girl's covered in another ocean of crimson to wash the gore and shit of the Leonard who she literally climbed through. Thigh and stomach mend within seconds. The remaining Leonards open fire. Shell casings fall, burn the ground. Bounce everywhere below their boots. Between their legs. Roll down the red stairs. Don't stop until the bullets are all spent in a fog of sulphur dioxide.

Jane lays in a puddle of herself. Still very much conscious in an existence of cooling hot lava melting her body back into the form of a skinny blonde dead girl. Sits up like an undertaker. Every soldier witnesses with wide eye statue gravities. Frozen in the kind of pissing pants fear which brings face paralysis strokes and heart attacks. A few soldiers have the ability to turn and run. Scuttle. Stumble. Shriek. Ultimately flee. The rest witness one another torn limb from torso, held hostage at the sight of such pachad.

Jane plunges her fist under the ouroboros tattoo rib cage of a Leonard peritoneum. Creeps her finger tips along each thoracic osteal stick. Grasps the cardiac. Ricks the beating heart. Wrenches from artery and cava and drags the valentine from the body back the way her fist penetrated. Blood gushes onto her bare legs and feet. Spits on the red muck and mucus. Raises the beating atrium and ventricle to the Leonard's dripping mouth. Breaks teeth and jaw punching the heart held fist down into the throat of the minty blue soldier. The Leonard falls as dead as the hospital workers previously slaughtered. Turns to another soldier and performs the same magic trick of blood bath butchery. And again. And again. One man regains movement from his stupefaction. Tries to bolt. Jane punches the soldier's spine before he gains any distance. Breaks the vertebrae. Crunches the nerves. The soldier falls torpefy. Screams. Cries. Gurgles. Jane kneels on his shoulder blades. Awkwardly twists the man's head around and around until it's a foot away from the body and still attached by a coil of misshapen stringy flesh tethers.

Fingernail rake the cheek scar grizzle of a woman who smells of sour smoke sulphur. Trips her hard onto shoulder blades. Climbs upon her like a giant vermin. Knees crunch elbows. Shoves her thumbs under the Leonard's eyelids. Presses the bowls back into the brain. Tears the tearing squirts of vitreous fluid. The woman screams in the language of primal fate. Jane jumps to her feet. Heel stomps the woman's mushy thrawn face into a splatter of hammered teeth and broken orbital eyebrow grey matter.

Air's misty thick with the whiffs of minty shit. Hallucinatory image of dead white rabbits in heaps upon freshly fallen blood snow. Jane's vision breathes in and out. Back and forth. Rabbits vanish into a reality of heads and hearts and body parts. Blue and white are drown by crimson.

Her shadow steps over the dead body of a young lab worker. Name tag like a toe tag. Donovan.

Jane resists a backward glance. Skips into the wreckage of the char white smoke stain hospital foyer. Bristles at the touch of a bullet enter and exit her left shoulder. Another squeal of a smoke wagon burns her thigh in a flesh wound. Three penetrate her abdomen. Fourth bursts her bellybutton. Wounds melt. Heal. Steps upon a crack brick heave pattern grout crumble tile toward a motionless escalator. Notices the many armed Leonards group on the large glass white metal rail curve at the straight of the second floor walkway. Jane vibrates magnetic. Knows her axe exists above somewhere like an archaeology brushing away the present truth of interpretation upon the many truths of history.

A bullet speeds an inch by her face. Watches the tiny fire with malachite gravities. Skips up the frozen escalator. Three and four and five steps at a time. Bullets enter her everywhere and exit her everywhere. Leaps. Summersaults upon the second story walkway. Leonards back away. Muzzle smoke. Scatter like mice at the gaze of a corn snake. Only one attempts to attack Jane. Shoots Jane in the chest with a Baretta M9 until the clip's empty. Throws the gun at Jane. Grips his own helmet off his bald head. Throws the blue bulbous at her. She punches it in mid air right back at him. The soldier dodges. Whips a long machete from a black leather sheath. Juggles the blade from hand to hand over and over. Jane notices the knife hasn't preserved its edge. Steel count must be low. Chops at her. Grabs the dull blade with her left hand. Fists a handful of the soldier's head skin with the other. Wrenches his face toward the point while the blade moves toward his face. The sound is windpipe osteal as such goes through his mouth until the chisel edge touches his teeth. The swage edge protrudes from the back of his skull. Jane pushes him lifeless to the aluminum oxide linoleum heat weld floor.

Witnesses the windowless dark corridor beyond the walkway and escalator. Skips a trail of barefoot blood. No interior lights. Halls ring with the sound of near silent laughter at the punch line of its own joke. Mocks the fresh darkness which fades into the tenebrosity beyond.

Slows her barefoot skip. Toetips. Listens carefully to muffles of words. Witnesses like the beginning of an invisible estuary at the raging shuffles of silhouette configuration. Sharp whiffs of brimstone coffin holes mint. Sideways gurney lays beside her feet, almost like such exists for her to notice as something she might have tripped over in another simulation. Bedsheets white behind stain brown black. Oxidizing blood. Down the hall grows louder with another whisper laugh tone of mockery. Mountainous like the voice of God pleading with Abraham to put the Aqedah knife down. A man's cadence languages a creak of pressure like Salinger glass upon another who is defiant. Jane waits outside the specific door where the language is originating. Doesn't recognize the voice. Another voice reiterates. Doesn't recognize it either. Who are they? Feels the electricity between each difference. Heat builds within her spine from the pull of the double blade war axe. The demon tool's on the other side of the door. Her's and only her's.

"Ah, buddy. Tell me. I want in that place. You're gonna let me in that place, buddy."

"I can't. The sanctuary is a myth! The only portal that might have been taken from a here-say fantasy of what you're looking for is gone. Buried with the Factory. Don't you understand? There's no such place. Reaper! There never was. And you buried what little inch you might've had to stretch into a mile! You! And now you want me to help you to enter it?"

"Priorities change over time, Dr buddy Reise. What about the way station, buddy? Oh, that's right. I know about that place. I know what this city is. I know what you are, my good buddy Dr Reise. I know what she is, too. And the place I'm looking for definitely exists. David once showed me in a dream, good buddy."

"Fuck David! He's dead now. Our Terra killed him. And what's outside killing your soldiers isn't the same one that you shot."

"Oh, really? Oh, buddy. They're all the same in the end, aren't they?"

"No. They are all vastly different. And the way station? I wish you luck. Do you even understand what David might have actually showed you? The sanctuary? If it does exist, what makes you think you'll be allowed access? If you get in, what makes you think you'll survive that guard before the law? You're no match for the goddess Judith.

"Leave that to me, buddy of mine. I have a feeling what I'm holding in my hand will get my ass in, oh my good buddy buddy buddy. This axe right here. This old thing. I think it knows something and it wants to tell me the secrets. I can pinpoint the portal below that flows along to the sanctuary with this fine ass piece of blade, buddy. It's a compass like this and that. And the portal's still functional but, like you said, it be and is buried in a grave with all the little fucking Ghosts. My, buddy. I'll find what I'm looking for in the way station by the slice of this axe. It'll be easy like destroying this entire simulation. First reality? Ha! A far more honest reality now. Buddy."

Jane pushes the door. Listens to the hinges creak graphite. There're three faces in the book clutter room. One torn jean gilet man holds her axe. Notices his arm tattoos are of interconnecting scythes.

"Boo!"

He flinches. Dismisses his shock quickly. Speaks with a privilege of confident authority. Holds her axe with both hands. Jane's magnetic.

"Will, my buddy. You know what to do."

From the opposite end of the room, a man named Will smirks. Twists the tethers of his large long moustache under his nubby paper burnt nose and bilious green glowing soupy eyes. Witnesses Jane in the manner of a sallow grave that's been dug up with any old flat relic laying around. His ornery words are like a civilization of ashtrays filled by the butts of madness.

"You smell like an Apollonian murder and the wet bed of a Dionysian. You're a perfume of orgies and war, little one. I'd like a taste of your innards through the open hole between your legs."

Slouches toward Jane. Smiles like a humming taxidermy with a masters hand in his puppet back. He barefoot kicks over a stack of hardcover books. Pages topple onto another stack of such stories about stories. The stacks are like the disorder of a city's labyrinth leaning paper buildings above cigarette burnt carpet streets. Will is a giant revenant from the view of such sidewalks.

Jane skip jumps. Grabs hold of the top of the door. Pulls herself up its cheap hollow manufacture. Crouches like a perching demon which touches the ceiling with both hands. Watches Will twist his chin toward his shoulder. Never breaks eye contact.

Jane growls like a low deep distortion of reverb contamination through the speakers of an ancient dusty record player in her voice box. The needle skips over and over. Another voice within Jane tells its contralto telling way along with the mire girl's soprano.

"I want my fucking axe. It's worn the blood of many Ghosts and revenants. My blade was once hacked into the tree of knowledge in the depths of this city's watery afterlife. But do keep it in your hand for now so that I may take it from you, Grand Ghost."

Reaper smiles.

"Kill her, Will."

Jane springs from the top of the door. Slams such shut. Lands atop Will. Topples him to the ground. Instantly guts his heart from his chest with a rib snapping punch grip pull. Will screams like a dead philosophy. Claws like new born vulgarity at the dungeon walls of memory's extinction. The mire girl flings the heart behind her. Punches Will's face like a barb wire baseball bat until a pulp of flesh and brain and bone remain. Will still has a mouth. Moustache whispers.

"Thank you."

Jane rips his head from his shoulders. Stands straight up. Holds the thinner cranium in her right hand. Glares directly at Reaper.

In this such moment, Reaper plunges an ancient broken curve willow chair leg into Jane's chest. Straight through her heart. Feels such pierce splinter through ribs and out her back.

Witnesses Reaper's eyes. Drops Will's head. Holds the protruding chair leg at her chest with both hands. Tries to pull the willow out. Won't budge. Witnesses down at herself. Collapses to her knees. Hears Dr Reise open the door. Step out into the hall. Listens as Reaper raises the axe at an angle. Laughs.

"Oh, Buddy. Didn't you know buddy? The fat lady's singing, buddy!"

Knows Reaper's about to sever her head. Can't move. The stake has seen to such. Wants to close her eyes. Doesn't.

Witnesses a knife raise behind Reaper's back. Jane smiles. Reaper's smirk droops in a moment of curiosity. The kind of curiosity God musta felt before Man killed Him. Reaper motions a swing. The background knife instantly slaughters his neck with numerous angular stabs. Motionless eyes fix on Jane. The axe drops from his hands. Clangs on the floor. Facial expression becomes sterile. Collapses as the skull mask lady pushes him to the side with his own falling weight. Rist stands in his place. Holds the blood drool knife.

The skull mask lady drops such slicing armament. Falls onto Jane. Tries desperately to pull the stake from her heart. Such's like a sword in a stone. Jane places her hand on Rist's cheek.

"I love you, my Rist."

The skull mask lady hugs the mire girl hard. Begins bawling. Shudders. Shakes.

The door creaks. Green eyes open in windows mirrors shadows upon the boundary of gravitational orbs. Jane witnesses a jawless Paula holding the severed head of doctor Reise by the hair. Spine like a tail slung around Paula's arm. Her eyes are stain glass eschatology. Tongue slithers out and back like a snake whispering to a hairless female jawless primate about God and faith and tasty treats.

The shadows engulf Jane's vision in a vignette of fading reality. Body numbs. Can feel nothing. What body? Forgets what was memorized. Rist dissolves in echoing pleads until all sound deadens. Jane forgets what was. Jane forgets Jane. The monster passes her through the streets of her blank slate. Licks such lips as they make eye contact. Such smiles like Michel Foucault murdering the construct of Man.

"It's my turn."