She was met with an angry red line running from between her breasts to her belly button. As large as it was, this was an injury that appeared to be a few days old already. The skin was scabbing over, and it held itself together fairly well except in a few places, which revealed a bloody, oozing gash. It was wide but not particularly deep; Phoebe saw no white or fatty yellow under the red.

She had expected herself to begin retching again. To not be able to look at it, or touch it. But in the safety of daylight, in the safety of solitude, Phoebe did just that. Her own blood coated her fingers and she examined them closely. Her blood, her skin. Everything that this wound symbolized was horrifying but a feeling that Phoebe couldn’t identify rose inside her. Or rather, a feeling that Phoebe did not want to identify. She began frantically wrapping the dressings back around herself, pulling them as tight as possible. Then she snapped the tag off of her clothes and slipped them on.

She walked down the corridor, and her hand trembled as she touched the door of the train car. Images of what might be waiting for her outside sprang up in her mind like weeds. The wildebeest-headed man, the monster. But all Phoebe could do now was throw it open and step outside.

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08.29.20
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Alright, we're finally earning that nudity warning!