2.2

05.10.2337

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I’m back in the hangar again, but now they are all screaming at me.  Their arms and legs are no longer attacting my attention.  It wouldn’t be so bad if they were talking, but they aren’t.  They could talk, too.  They aren’t screaming in pain, but in protest.  They don’t miss their arms or their legs.  They all agree on one thing, they won’t give me the satisfaction of hearing them talk, and I’ll never forget their screaming, pointless and wordless, without justification.

(I did this and could have stopped it.)

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