You are clean enough.

You lie flat against the earth, face-down, and find the grass is tickling your skin. You stay there a moment, trembling, damp and cold and caught off-guard. You writhe against the ground, pressing as much of your skin into the moisture as you can. Forearms. Thighs. Crotch and palms and face.

You assess your work and find it imperfect - you have traded caked-on mud for grass-stains, the green pressed deep beneath your skin. Still, it is better.

You stand there, blinking, like a newborn beast.

You have enough mud on your skin.

You dip your hands into the ground and then turn them on yourself: you smear the thick, dak soil into spirals, make a canvas of your body. The worms rise up to meet your fingers and you drape them in your hair, let them coil across your scalp and neck and back. The muck becomes a second skin; you feel so safe within its grasp.

Your body is whole, your skin unbroken. You do not need their stinging gifts.

With ravenous, shaking hands, you descend upon the shelves. Tearing open, shaking free, you leave no evidence behind. You drag your bounty to a quiet corner, and press the cotton pads against your wounds. The softness soaks the leaking well enough. Slowly, softly, you apply more pressure, stuffing it inside you, deep into the wound. The wretched thing resists absorption, makes a bulge beneath the reddening skin. You press it down, stuff in the corners, wincing as you do.

For now, at least, your body will not bleed.

You crawl towards the section marked FIRST AID. No good - another body holds the aisle, hands drifting across the shelves. No chance of a clean exit. You hiss in rage, and move away; without relief, the pain clings tight onto your broken skin.

Your pockets already sag with the weight of their useless gold. You have no need for more.

Your lips peel back to show your teeth. The thing behind the counter meets your gaze, returns the threat display. It squawks in terror as you vault the counter - it's making small and shrinking back. Woefully unprepared. This will be easier than you thought. You hold the pitiful thing in place and drop your jaw - teeth meet clothes, meet skin, meet flesh. Then, the taste of iron, unfolding thick and heavy on your tongue. Its body sags beneath you as you lock your jaw and shake. The creature goes still; you release it and it flees, leaving its liquids splattered on the tiles.

Its small vault must have sprung open in the struggle: crisp notes and gleaming coins lie waiting for your touch. You clutch a generous fistful to your chest.

• good. now flee.

You size up the unattended till. Check the air around you: free of bodies, free of piercing eyes. One step closer, then another. You duck the barrier, dart behind the counter, slot your nails into the tiny gap between the till and its small vault. It opens for you, pinches the skin of your fingers with glee. Crisp notes and gleaming coins lie waiting for your touch; you scoop them up and clutch them to your chest.

• good. now flee.

You eye the unattended till. Too many bodies behind you - shuffling in place, clutching at their tiny panaceas. One of them lets out a wet and throaty cough; you lose your nerve and peel away.

Beyond the broken glass, you spy a scrap of green. Half-submerged in a rancid puddle, struggling in vain to drift on the breeze. The same half-shiny paper-plastic you've seen clutched in other bodies' hands. It is clearly of value to them; a fragile bounty, waiting to be seized. Do you dare?

• i do.
• i don't.

Beyond the broken glass, you spy a scrap of patterned card. There is a footprint stamped across its surface; it obscures the printed text. You have seen these before, but only once or twice - clutched in a travelling hand. It is clearly of value to them; a fragile bounty, waiting to be seized. Do you dare?

• i do.
• i don't.

Beyond the broken glass, you spy a bundle wrapped in foil. It is half-submerged in a rancid puddle, left to rot. One corner of foil has released its hold, revealing bread and meat and leaves. Your stomach clenches. Sustenance. Better still, a bargaining chip. Yours for the taking - do you dare?

• i do.
• i don't.

You approach and your shadow blots out the moonlight, hides the danger from your path. Undeterred, you grit your teeth and stride across the glass. Your first few steps are not so bad - you feel the smaller grains against your heels but the pain is dull and low. The fifth step lands you on an upturned edge; it slices through your instep, makes you yelp. Your muscles spasm and you crash onto the ground and there is pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and you are spilling on the ground. A hand darts out; you grab your prize and drag yourself away.

You slide one foot forwards, then the other, steering clear of the larger shards. You feel smaller grains of it beneath your heels, but the pain is dull and low. Five steps in, and you are within reach of your prize. Your torso bends, your hand descends - and it is yours! You clutch it tight as you retrace your steps.

You slide one foot forwards, then the other, steering clear of the larger shards. Your first few steps are not so bad - you feel the smaller grains against your heels but the pain is dull and low. The third step lands you on an upturned edge; it slices through your instep, makes you yelp. Your muscles spasm and you crash onto the ground and there is pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and you are spilling on the ground. Your prize lies hopelessly out of reach; you hiss and drag yourself away. It is for others now.

The box presents you with a mess of letters and words, none of which makes sense to you. The bodies behind you are stirring, suspicious, ill at ease. There is a body using the next machine over; you glance at them sidelong, mimic each of their actions in turn. A random word, an unknown fate. Your sweaty fingertips leave smears against the glass. The machine swallows up your offered gold reluctantly, spits a pristine piece of paper into your waiting hands.

The box presents you with a mess of letters and words, none of which makes sense to you. The bodies behind you are stirring, suspicious, ill at ease. There is a body using the next machine over; you glance at them sidelong, mimic each of their actions in turn. A random word, an unknown fate. Your sweaty fingertips leave smears against the glass. But now the other body is feeding it circular pieces of metal - but you have no such thing. The bodies behind you are murmuring. You curl your hands into fists, feel your nails bite your palm. Making sure to hold your head up high, you stride away.

The box awaits you, but you don't know what to do. There are other bodies behind you and they are looking, looking, looking. Your hands will not stay still. Without recourse, you hunch your back and move away.

The gates refuse to open; you are kept at bay.

AN ORIFICE WEEPING

You follow the sound of running water and find the ground is wounded. A cleft at the end of a ditch, leaking brownish water. You run your hands along its edges, assess the damage. If it hurts, the ground does not complain.

If you turned sideways, you could probably fit inside.

AN ORIFICE WEEPING

The ground shits you out once more; the filth of that place clinging to your skin, drying swiftly in the midnight air. You smear it on your face, then lift your eyes to the moonlight; the caked-on excrement begins to crack around your smiling mouth.

You suspect it would be hubris to ask for the box-body's blessing once more.

You sidle up, still drooling, eyes downcast. The box-body casts its baleful eye upon you, barks a garbled sound. Yugonabysomefinorwat? From its tone, you understand that you have been judged unworthy. You recoil from it; you will do better, next time.

You approach with eyes locked on the rotating shank of flesh. It entrances you, leaves you slack-jawed and simple in your emptiness, in your hunger, in your need. There are pictures on the side of the box - you gesture vaguely at one of them, hoping against hope it will suffice. It seems to, but now the box-body is staring. Its hand is out, palm-up, wanting tribute, but you have none to give. Now it is making violent sounds - misery of miseries, you have displeased the box. You dip your eyes and flee, clutching at your stomach with both hands.

You approach with eyes locked on the rotating shank of flesh. It entrances you, leaves you slack-jawed and simple in your emptiness, in your hunger, in your need. There are pictures on the side of the box - you gesture vaguely at one of them, hoping against hope it will suffice. Tribute tumbles into the box-body's waiting palm. Despite knowing what custom demands, you cannot bear to fall back. You are at the box's lip as the meat is scraped back and forth, as the smell of it intensifies. It blackens and you almost howl - but the box-body has mercy upon you, putting another piece of flesh onto the heat. Soon, it is over. Soon, you are blessed with warm meat. You snatch it greedily from the box-body's hands.

The box-body will want tribute, and you have none to give.

The other bodies push past you, send you off-balance, chattering and laughing as they go. They throw sounds up to the body in the box - easy, practiced. Hotdockjickenburgerjeesanjips. Box-body extends its hand; the others give it coins and shiny plastic-paper. This done, they draw back - as if in contemplation, exhanging quiet noises, eagerly watching the box. There is a sizzling and the smell grows better still. The box-body is humming to itself and you listen, rapt, to every note. There are questions, and then answers. Then, the other bodies are blessed with fresh-burnt meat.

You watch their hands come to their mouths. You watch their fattening bodies move off into the dark. There is so much you do not understand.

The bodies will change you, if you let them. Wet food and a warm, soft place. A set of hands that love you. Learning that your violence and your sulking will be ultimately futile. Learning to take what is given, even when it hurts you and you do not understand.

Is it worth it? Hard to say. Not all humiliations can be swallowed; you must decide for yourself what can be withstood. Just know that if their bargain is accepted, it will likely be the last free choice you ever make.

Do you understand?

• i think so.

You have nothing that it wants.

Its hackles raise, it shows its teeth. Fearing further displeasure (and wounding), you bite back petulant complaint.

You look upon this place and think that it is bounded; you might think otherwise if you had ever seen it from the air. Their words, their barriers, their tidy packaging of land - all of it is false. Miles above and miles around, nothing but space that is empty and space that is full. The roost is warm and welcome, but it will never satisfy for you.

Do you understand?

• i think so.

It stretches out its hand. You regard the proffered limb, unsure how to proceed. Its mouth widens without opening.

It is moving towards you; spooked, you dart away.

Once more, you approach it. Once more, it offers you its hand. You move closer to it than last time, but keep your body low, ready to bolt. Deference. Lack of threat.

Its hand is toying with your hair now. You close your eyes, lean into the foreign skin. It has been so long since you were touched with care. Your body shakes; your mouth lets out a keening sob.

The body is making sounds. It hits you all at once - the body is perceiving you, perceiving this. You cannot take it. You cannot. Once more, you dart away.

This time, the body is the one to approach you: slowly, slowly, murmuring all the way. You are not fooled. You see the loop of rope it wields, the way its wary eyes are lingering on your neck.

It seeks to bind you, beat you, drag you off, but you will not be caught. You run until your legs almost give way.

A body hits you first and there is sharpness in its grip. A stabbing pain. An instant sheen of sweat. Your shallow, gasping cries. Your attacker draws the sharpness from your skin; it drags blood and intestine with it from the wound. The rest of them are jeering - you feel their hands upon you, beating, beating, beating down. There is nothing in you that does not throb or stab or ache. This cannot be endured; you play dead until they leave you be, then drag yourself away.

You close your mouth around one of the attacking hands. Good - now don't stop biting down until your teeth hit bone. The body is wailing now, and the others are backing off. Beginning to comprehend just what you are. A loud snap. The breaking-down of tendon-gristle. The hand withdraws; the finger is left behind. You lift your head so they can see you swallow it whole.

There is no screaming now - just terrorstruck silence, broken by weeping and the thud of one or two unconscious bodies tumbling to the ground. This includes the fingerless body, whose blood now makes a fountain in the road.

Can you take it further?

• i can, i must, i will.
• my stomach churns. the fight must stop.

In your present state you stand no chance.