Oh.

Oh.

Look at the way it writhes on the ground. Like a little dancer round a maypole.

Quite a gorgeous shade of red, too. Perhaps I'll take a bit, show it to the decorator. I hope it doesn't oxidize. Any deeper of a tone and it'll clash with the curtains. They're vintage, you know.

Oh.

It's still alive. Clawing at my dress. Nasty little thing. Can you believe that it wanted to be human?

Now don't you leave a stain. I spent a lot of money on this dress. It's custom. These are real diamonds. The kind you get from worker children in the third world. Don't be such a prude, at least they're employed. Anyhow, do you like it? It's designer, you know.

Oh.

Its sinew got twisted round my stiletto.

I don't know why I wore these. They haven't fit right since the war. I get so stiff after just a few hours with them on. My, it'd persistent. You think it'd have some sort of afterlife to get to. Do these things even believe in a god? No matter. Do you like the shoes? They're designer. And vintage.