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The Blush Factory TGThe Blush Factory
I groaned and blinked my eyes open as best I could. Still, I could barely see anything.
My throat felt like it had been washed with that junk dentists used to clean teeth. And I felt like my arms were locked in place as though by a rigid, tucked bed sheet. That got me blinking even more and fussing about.
Though my ears felt like they had plugs in them, I could still hear a hiss and crunch of some great machine running in the background.
Slowly, my vision returned and I looked around. I was secured to a place on a conveyor belt and I wasn't the only one. Countless men, just like me, were on the conveyor belt as well. Most had their heads down and appeared unconscious. Some were fussing about. A few were gagged but still trying to say something.
The areas around the conveyor belt were dark and mechanized. Bits turned and whirred, blowing off steam or belching water down drains.
My wrists were behind me and felt numb due to tension. I fussed with them
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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