[This was originally published in a slightly different form last year at the Escapist - keen eyed pedants may note the difference in the opening. I suspect this one could run from now until the end of time and remain relevant. Chins up, soldiers.]
And then they’re gone.
They were the air that you breathed, the water you drank, the creature who – in a whirlwind of flesh – turned early nights into early mornings. Now they’re the toxin pumped into your gas chamber, the sand on your tongue and the nagging memory of /that/ thing with their tongue on your bare skin, which you know you’ll never feel again.
What do you do? What can you do? You are broke-up. You are Ex. That is, ex-human. Your life is over.
It’s time to build a new one.
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