Inhuman

   We hadn't been humans since they took us from our homes, dragging us across a bullet soaked main street to the sound of government issued combat boots and savage cries.

   For three weeks we were held in a glorified basement, fed sunlight through a small window high upon the filthy wall. Women wept over hollow children bathed in flickering electric lights and fat, buzzing flies.

   But then the Doctor came and people started draining off the cracks on the floor. Suddenly, we were only ten and began developing a pavlovian response to the click of the door latch. I was the last to be taken, my stomach sewn onto my back and my stench crusted over layers of dead skin and miscellaneous fluids, M14s hurrying my shaky steps.

   I was finally delivered into a dark room and strapped onto a padded chair. The harsh lights were turned on when he arrived, forcing wonky shapes to writhe beneath my eyelids. My eyes swam in boiling tides as his fingers hiked their way up my thigh, his nose buried in my collarbone.

   “I've never had one like you before”, said the blade as it drew its way across my chest, telegraphing his pleasure onto my skin.

   I used to want to understand human nature, wanted to know if we are nothing but primordial killing machines fashioned out of flesh and bone or if there’s more to the rotting miasma of our existence. These are things I no longer wish to understand.

   Oh God, please don’t let me know the answer.