First draft fragment of a new short story:
I am burning. My skin slides onto the floor. I am dripping. I drip pain in big tacky dollops and oozing, wet threads. In the beginning, during the rushing and the shouts, the tearing and the pulling and the scraping, with the beeps and the liquid and the white, everywhere the white, the words are only fragments of humanity. But now I am numbed I can hear my father’s voice. The utter sadness of it seeps into the white walls and effects everyone. It fuses with the smell of my falling skin, my tufts of hair, and all the bits of me that stick to the bed and the floor and the walls and the ceiling like I was a bug and someone stepped on me too hard. I got splattered.