I was her for a second, infinitesimally small, the moment in which I was what they wanted, what I wanted. That second lasted longer than I care to admit, dragging onward like a child who hates school getting dressed, or sliding their feet hesitantly across the ground. A second riddled with lethargy, apathy, and little red stripes. The second was a small battle, a fight contained in the tiniest blip of time, with swords, and guns, a millennium of weapons crammed into this tiny box of time between the seconds before and after.
If that second was a battle, this hour is the war.
I'll be him for an hour, that's my hope, anyway, naturalistic intents sliding into surgical masks, and draining tubes. Fantasies of being a Frankenstein Monster, scar tissue and exhaustion, pain pills and reconstruction from the old into the new, less damaged internally, but infinitely more damaged on the outer layers, until it heals. And how long is that? A big part of the hour, I'm guessing. But the fact that it'