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Description
They like it when you scream.

They strap you to a chair, a four-legged monster made of splintered wood. They take a scalpel. Hold it up to the lens. Steel glints viciously in the light; a metallic cobra, winking, winking.

They casually start gouging your eyes out.

You scream. Howl. Shriek. Beg. No, please, I'll do anything, I didn't do it, I swear I won't do it again, just please don't...

I've heard it all before.

The blade punctures your eyeball. There's a pop, like a balloon being burst at a child's birthday party. You scream even louder. Clear tears are replaced by red ones. You thrash in your seat like a worm on a hook. You wet yourself at this point.

I've seen it all before.

When your eyelids are empty pits – graves, graves, empty graves – they sew your eyelids shut. Thick black thread. Stands out for the cameras. You're taken to the Tower, a cylindrical structure that pumps a constant stream of black smoke into the sky. It resembles a colossal cigar, except instead of tobacco, humans burn inside.

Every day we sit in front of the screen and watch the traitors being fixed, impassive. Man, woman, and me. Aloud I must address them as Mother and Father, but in my head they are man and woman. That's my freedom, my own personal liberty, and if you try to take that away from me, I'll kill you, then I'll kill myself, in front of all the electric eyes in the house, one in the light bulb, one in the shower head, dozens scattered everywhere like genital warts, I'll do it, I swear.

Feed my eyes, can you sew them shut?

That was a rock song. From the old days.

Yes. They like it when you scream.

Description
They like it when you scream.

They strap you to a chair, a four-legged monster made of splintered wood. They take a scalpel. Hold it up to the lens. Steel glints viciously in the light; a metallic cobra, winking, winking.

They casually start gouging your eyes out.

You scream. Howl. Shriek. Beg. No, please, I'll do anything, I didn't do it, I swear I won't do it again, just please don't...

I've heard it all before.

The blade punctures your eyeball. There's a pop, like a balloon being burst at a child's birthday party. You scream even louder. Clear tears are replaced by red ones. You thrash in your seat like a worm on a hook. You wet yourself at this point.

I've seen it all before.

When your eyelids are empty pits – graves, graves, empty graves – they sew your eyelids shut. Thick black thread. Stands out for the cameras. You're taken to the Tower, a cylindrical structure that pumps a constant stream of black smoke into the sky. It resembles a colossal cigar, except instead of tobacco, humans burn inside.

Every day we sit in front of the screen and watch the traitors being fixed, impassive. Man, woman, and me. Aloud I must address them as Mother and Father, but in my head they are man and woman. That's my freedom, my own personal liberty, and if you try to take that away from me, I'll kill you, then I'll kill myself, in front of all the electric eyes in the house, one in the light bulb, one in the shower head, dozens scattered everywhere like genital warts, I'll do it, I swear.

Feed my eyes, can you sew them shut?

That was a rock song. From the old days.

Yes. They like it when you scream.