The sun is not warm here.
The sun is a red mouth screaming across the sky.
It bleeds in long needles.
It watches me with such hatred I could taste it — like licking a battery.
I floated closer.
Not by choice.
The fish-things around me cowered. The sky-frogs leapt into unseen cracks.
Only I was drawn toward it.
The screaming got louder.
And louder.
And louder.
Until I realized it wasn't the sun at all.
It was inside me.
My own voice.
How long had I been screaming?
Since the motel?
Since the first death?
Since the first breath?
I didn't know.
I reached out. My hands cracked. Skin peeled back, revealing not bone, but keys. Old brass keys. Each one inscribed with a number I didn't recognize.
A choice, the sun said (but did not say).
A choice, the screaming inside confirmed.
The choice was easy:
I swam downward.
Into the mouth of the sun.