It was a sterile, sterile white room; the paint still wet and hideously bright. Where doors should be there were little puddles of paint spread out in clots like dried blood. Through the grey plastic door, "blood puddles" spilled onto the threshold of every room from which the door led. Nothing had been unpainted, the entire place hurt. Splayed out in the second execution chamber painted blood puddle was Wendy. The body was stark and devoid of motion, softened by effusions of the bright blood dripping through the air. Dragged in by its shadow self, Sonny came to her side; struggled with the ninety-four million small electricians that induced her to inflate a now dead bubble. He could have done it for her, but the idea of Wendy being sucked away from him into nothing burned. The Stars drank it, starved her. It was as if there was no time and no universe. There was always Wendy. "It is just--", Sonny whispered and put his hand upon her knee, checked his watch, "that we would have had our breakfast date together had she not suddenly tried to strangle her husband, or even at all because she strangled herself." Sonny, shelling himself off the suit; kissed her tenderly. Turning inside, whispered like a bird, "I got her for you Love", and running with Continue reading