CONTENT WARNING: sexual assault. like most of my dreams there are mentions and scenes of rape

Jobs taken under the constant cool of ac replacing whatever stale air can accumulate let’s Vogue stay calculating. Air alone is not the only thing changing moment to moment and to cognizantly die with each breath makes her the best psychological samurai. new air shaping around her body keeps her present. a bodily reminder for her brain to not be afraid of each death since its already happened the moment you remember it. 

this is important when your paid top dollar for top pleasure. maybe if it were real, Vogue’s body would take over and let her brain shut down. maybe if it were real, and not a job, she’d surrender her body to flow letting feel guide each reaction, simply continuing the natural movement that feels right, or whatever that means. But Vogue wouldn’t know. It’s always theories until the heat hits and sedates her brain.

Smoke doesn’t push the stale air out but entwines itself with it, somehow making it heavy letting it sink through itself down past her chin settling in the concrete pressing against her spine. the heat let’s Vogue dream of a place not her own, but maybe it belonged to the egg she hatched from some generations ago. or maybe the egg she hatched from belonged to it some generations ago.

heat slows her ever rippling skin and she sinks with the smoke into a hazy memory churned into dream.

Vogue does not wonder where she’ll go today and drifting clouds eventually slow to a stop before reorganizing into a steady circular march. She blows an o through the ring hanging high above her in the atmosphere. dark descends around her in raining ash. In this darkness clouding behind the thin mucus film protecting her eyeball, Vogue feels the rigid edges of this egg. She let’s her skin bleed past its squishy shell until her senses permeate first the womb that carries her and then the body that coalesced around this womb.

She adjusts into this new body that she knows is her mother’s. Vogue, like her mother, will never be human but this body looks a little like one. Only on the outside though. The heat sedated all Vogues will to a still. She watches her mom’s body turn and the rough blanket covering her legs itches atrociously but Vogue has no will in these dreams. She can only watch and feel and there is no point in calculating when any conclusion must be ignored.

All this already happened, after all. Vogue is simply remembering. Vogue prefers gritting silently through sharp pain than the never ending dull itch, but it’s not her decision to stay. It was her mother’s some years ago and that past cannot be changed only witnessed and felt passively.

It’s the only time Vogue let’s herself fall passive, because it’s the only time she can’t find a choice.

Her mom’s skin boils at the surface but Vogue knows its really muscles and bones undulating, shifting, warring underneath. She hears her mother’s voice cry out and resonate through her skull. Her body writhes on the floor kicking the blanket off her legs and the green fluorescent lights singe her hairs as soon as they’re revealed.

It’s impossible to breathe and Vogues feels like she’s drowning in liquid fire but these dreams are the only time she knows it will be ok so she revels in a pain that’s promised to cease.

She hears a fuzzy screeching intercom voice pierce through her newly formed eardrums but the language can’t process the words over rolling iron clawing at her bones.

A hazmat human peers down at her through a tinted face shield. Vogue does not wonder why her mom refuses to move when she sees the needle only when its embedded between her two eyes. 

Green slime cools her brow as it jumps from neuron to neuron reshaping first her face and then her body.

She still doesn’t try to move. Vogue does wonder what her mom is thinking now. Why doesn’t she fight? It’s the only part of this memory she’ll never know. It’s the only thing Vogue knows she longs for, her mothers thoughts.

Another human in a hazmat suit walks in a snd she seems him undress from the corner of her eye. her eyes stay unfocused and still trained above. she see’s the red light under the lab’s camera click off.

the man mounts her shirt still on pants half unzipped. She’s the fourth sex doll they managed to mold from her kind, and they take her for a short test drive.

Vogue is too calloused to care and waits for him to finish. He seeps around the egg holding Vogue accumulating as poison rotting her insides. they leave and the red light flicks on then off. 

Vogue waits to wakeup but instead feels her mother’s body move against the glass and feels her shoulder press into it, then past it. Despite their cruelly specific experiments, they haven’t learned all her kinds tricks. They still have no idea what they can do. Her head and right arm hang out the glass and a hand that is not her own combs through her matted hair. 

She’s held still like this as her flesh rots into mushrooms from the inside. The scientists got it wrong, again, and tomorrow they will conduct more experiments but she refuses to leave nothing behind.

Vogue forgets she’s dreaming until the coughing starts. With each violent heave her egg, holding Vogue, jumps violently up bluntly bludgeoning through womb walls and stomach lining and barreling a tiny hole through her left lung until it sits at the base of her throat. one final cough and Vogue loses all sense of her mother’s skin.

She floats for a second and Vogue wonders if she’s waking up, but she winds up sitting in cupped hands. Vogue knows these hands. Vogue loathes these hands, but she cannot run as an egg nor can she rewrite what’s been done. The faint taste of vomit sweats in her mouth, maybe from the body she left on concrete but she quickly forgoes that sensation 

These hands flood with tears and dripping saliva half from her mom and half from the sweat pouring out of these heinous palms. She feels this water seep into her egg and mix hardening the shell as it realizes it has something to protect.

The new body swallows it and vogue wakes up when she hits the back of this new person’s throat.

It’s night when Vogue finally peels herself off the concrete. She’s surrounded by ash and covered in vomit. The cool night air seeps under her scalp reminding her brain to get up before someone finds her. Calculation that once ebbed in her dream churn again. 

She jumps and catches herself with crow’s wings on the late evening breeze that carries her home.