You had a voice before they arrived on Earth.
You try to remember it while they move around, but sharp pain brings you back to the dimly lit room and the blurry faces. Reminds you of the straps bruising your limbs.
They cut you open for the seventh time, drawing out blood, flesh, and a crying, approved product.
“It’s a male,” one of them says. “Their skulls have been in high demand lately.”
“And the carrier?”
“Expired. This female can’t produce candle holders anymore. Send it to the wastebin.”
You want to scream, but the stitches keep your mouth shut.
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