Dandon

I’m trapped in some sort of convention centre with a bunch of other strangers. A band is playing and we are free to roam around and do as we please, other than that there is a man with a grotesquely large, swollen, disfigured and scab-coloured face who keeps showing up to haul us away one by one to torture us in some unseen area.

I’m sitting around talking to a man whose arm has been forcibly removed and another whose face is severely burnt on one side. A third, possibly dead, is sprawled face-down on the floor, his shirtless skin so covered with welts that his back looks like it’s covered in Cheerios. A woman in great pain hobbles in to collapse on a seat nearby, one of her heels having been freshly sliced off.

I feel lucky that I have not been taken so far, but am afraid knowing that my turn will inevitable come. I try to hide in the rafters, although I’m sure my doing so is futile.