Another room inlaid with concrete and the distant fluorescent point-lights well illuminate the naked black woman lying on a steel gridwork suspended at some indeterminate height. Above, the shadow council looks on through diffused windows to... observe.
As I take turns becoming each in a series of relationships, I am always the one frozen atop the grid, numbly trying to escape the whirling arm fixed to the platform's center.
When I am myself, Kitten is frozen there, her face stapled to the interior of a book, her grim visage staring out at my nudity on the edge of survival. I slap her, I scream at her, I cry out "What is the way out!!!" She can only laugh, as the Joker laughs, when I have nothing I can offer, nothing I can threaten, and am powerless.
In a last effort, I twist and jerk to the side. Steel bolts puncture through the gridwork, impaling me at the forearms, the elbows, the wrists. It is quite the thing to feel both severed and crushed simultaneously.
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