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Roadkill

Picture this:

Writhing.
Head, arms, legs flailing frantically beyond control.
Flailing to distract the pain.
Your stomach is flattened, crushed.
You are two halves, separated save for a bone, tendon, or a nerve.
Out of control.
Life, time, death are all meaningless.
You don’t think.
You can’t scream.
But you want to.
Pain.
You are roadkill.

That’s what it felt like.

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