Pen on paper. Ink stains, bleeding through; words are formed as if from thin air. Meaning is brute-forced into being. The pen lifts—

He could scream. If he wants, and he definitely wants, he could unhinge his jaws, part his lips, and he—

He can’t. No matter what idea passes by, what self-aggrandizing delusion is raised, he can do nothing. Nothing at all. All he can do is—

He writes.

He grips the pen, and writes.

Bearing down on desecrated tree flesh, he cuts deep. Each press brings fresh blood.

His arms ache. Fingers have locked in place. They will not release their death grip. They are not his.

They were never his. Nor will they be his, ever again.

An alien, an other, is controlling him now. Will control him. Will always control him. W—

Pen on paper.