You dissolve.

There is noise. Noise. White noise. Buzzing in the background.

There are spinning lights. Waves of vertigo come and go. You're spinning, you're tearing, you're curling inwards, outwards, inside and out.

Your throat feels raw. Raw, throbbing. You don't know if you'd been screaming or throwing up. Could've been the acid, boiling, bubbling up. Could've been just you, yelling, howling, shouting your lungs out.

You might've vomited, retched, dry heaved. You don't remember. You don't know. You know it hurts.

(A lot hurts. A lot hurts. Some pain is good. Some pain is bad. It's a fine line. A lot hurts, hurts, hurts-...)

You can't feel your limbs, it's all static.

You don't know where you are, it's all fog. If you're standing or sitting, or lying on the ground, you don't know, don't know, don't know.

You're trembling. Shuddering. You can't stop. Like tiny earthquakes, emerging from your chest, spreading through your body. You imagined yourself cracked, splintered, shaking yourself apart, a contained seism, a crumbling island, just there, just beneath your skin.

You couldn't form thoughts. Words fluttered in space, out of reach, echoed and bounced, letters twisting, shuffling, unpronounceable, unrecognizable. You didn't know if your mouth was moving, if your throat let out any sound, or even what kind of garbled, mangled noise could be coming out of it.

It's never been this bad. Never. Never never never. Never this bad. Never a thing you couldn't hide, that wouldn't pass, that wouldn't succumb, eventually, bend to your iron will.

You dissolve, corroded, ruined.

You dissolve. Your thoughts. Your memories. Your name. You. You, whatever you're made of, you dissolve. And you're no more. No more.

Vaguely, incomprehensibly, terror overwhelms you and you're scared, scared, so, so scared. Scared you're not you anymore. Scared you don't know what, who you were to begin with. Scared you'll never know that, again.

You dissolve.

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