A striking portrait took center stage. The subject was a lovely golden-haired woman in a man’s jacket; she peered warily at the viewer. He wasn’t ordinarily into figurative art, but it made him feel things in his parts. Which parts he hadn’t worked out yet. Multi-part feelings.
“They sleep like children, mouths open, cheeks flushed. Breathing as rhythmic as swells on a sea. No longer allowed in the rooms, their mothers and fathers watch them through double-paned glass. Isolation – that’s what the doctors call it: the separation of the sick from the well. But isn’t every sleep a kind of isolation? When else are we so alone?”
When an experiment goes wrong 7 teens are now stuck in a nightmarish world in their heads. It is is up to them to figure out what is going on and how they can survive/get out.
Something lunges from our right, cutting Sinclair and me off from the rest of the group: a saint whose mournful eyes are directed toward the ceiling as he nears. What looks like real blood drips from perfectly rounded stone holes in the centers of his palms and feet, pooling on the marble floor as he moves silently toward us. Slowly, his eyes lower and focus on me, and his hands reach forward clawing the air.
