Made.

I'm going to let them know all about it. That I know what they get up to. They do this sort of thing now, I said. And I shouldn't have said it. It's none of my or her business what they do and I'm one to talk anyway. From behind the windows darkness creeps across the lawn and into my eyes. All I want is my bed. The earth is turning faster than it should, while an insistent ringing grows louder. Can you hear it? No, she said. It hurts, I said. It looks like it, she said. I collapsed and vomited onto the threadbare carpet, grazing my cheek. That felt good. Warm and painful. I remember being punched really hard in the stomach as a child and how good it felt once the pain became hot, after the initial cold slicing of dullness through flesh. So heavy and numbing you're not sure if you will even survive it. Looking up at her I started to cry and rolled onto my back choking tears and thick liquid into the air. Look at me. I screamed. Look at what they've made me. Not them, she said. You. Look what you've made yourself.