They came again, last night – those women in black suit contrasting the sheet on my back.

One of them was holding a tray; the other was pushing a cart. All in all there were three women, one with a tray and one with a cart. The sight of the clattered metal made me shudder; the coldness crawled from my neck down to my spine. It was rusty and ****** and somber in that dimness of the endless corridor outside.

I, however, cannot tell those things inside the cart. I wouldn’t want to. No one will believe me. If I do so, they will hurl me in that room then wrap a cold, unfeeling machine round my head and fire indiscriminate gunshots. No. I will not. I cannot. They wouldn’t believe me. They will chain me, call me mad and electrify me while guaranteeing nonsense.

But it happened, really. It happened. They pushed my blanket down and my robe up, its edge touching the base of my chin. And it was very cold, and very rough, and very sharp, that metal the woman dragged on my chest, on my skin.

It was very rough.
And very cold.
And very sharp.

And she was too strong, the other woman in black. Her left hand covering my mouth I could barely breathe, her right keeping my arms at bay while she dragged the metal on my chest, creating this curve and that slice.

And my skin burned that kind of thin burning consuming not just a tree but the entire forest with all its silent secrets.