To reap what one sows is a tricky proposition. Take my friend, Pixel, who jumped out of an airplane. That damned dog! So I had to jump out after him, only my parachute didn’t open.
But that’s okay because the seed sprouted! The face was expertly drawn and the eyes were deftly colored in a fine azure, painstakingly rendered flesh and dead protein eruptions! I was so pleased. So pleased.
But, of course, there was the foreshadowing. I didn’t notice it until later, when my leg was sliced open, through to the bone. Sliced like a stuffed pork chop, clean and sinewy. “It’ll heal,” I thought, until I saw my other calf was worse; still, I wasn’t entirely worried, just made a mental note to be careful.
Until I saw the missing toe. Wait, what?! Where’s my fucking toe? The man in the mirror is not me! Not me! No, no no! This is a dream, this is a dream, and I shake and sweat and push hard against the affronting image, the cackling countenance. The wall shakes, I quake, and pass out on the tile.
Somewhere, a dog barks.