Dystopia The Story of the Damned

Doing Things Real People Do

His eyelids lay flat on his eyes. Why must it feel weird to him if it feels right to others? His eyelids open revealing, a bright, eye-piercing light. Why is it so illuminated to him if it is so dull to others? His world is so far away from the sun. Why is it so gleaming? Is this how you wake up, to a blazing light? The floor feels cold as ice. His bones ache from pain from laying down flat all night. His muscles twitch, making him get up.

Clothes, the layers for the skin. The wore fabric rubbing against the skin, making skin-irritating and giving discomfort. The sacrifice they must make to fit in a world that shuts out the instinct of everyday life. He slowly digests the array of chemical compounds into his body. As he slowly goes outside, ideas start to deteriorate as the toxin chemical interferes with daily thoughts.

Thanks to the hunger hormones in his empty stomach, he's uncomfortable and unable to perform a daily task. He grabbed an unfertilized chicken embryo and placed it on a hot pan watching the chemical reaction scrambling it. Taking small bits at a time, slowly introducing them to the body.

A tall, slim piece of wood stands in front of the way. He puts his hand on the icy nob, turning it as everything around him starts to get blurry. Slowly as the door opens, revealing the gleaming ball of Hydrogen and Helium takes the view for the moment. That one moment feels like a century, as time moves slowly and space around starts to feel lighter. Walking feels less than a chore and feels like drifting into space with each step taking longer to complete. The world around him slowly fades away into a void of nothing and everything.