The last thing she remembered was butterflies. Blue wings fluttering from her body, breaking apart her skin as easily as plastic wrap. A little resistance at first, but after the initial puncture, she could feel herself ripping faster and faster, feel the wings like razor blades, the legs like needles, as she fell from the top of a building, all the way down, down, down to the bottom, and right before her body hit, she was gone, empty, disappeared. When next she opened her eyes, she was on the floor of a broken down warehouse, cold, cold, freezing cold. She reached down to pick at her leggings, only to find skin scarred and uneven. Must have been sleepwalking again. It wasn’t the first time she ended up somewhere with no clothes on, it definitely wouldn’t be the last.
The building seemed empty enough, so she rose to her feet (cold cold cold) in search of wherever she left them this time, creeping around, constantly on the lookout for a spare piece of paper or rag to step on along the way. She couldn’t feel the cold on her feet, not really. But she remembered what cement flooring felt like, and that was enough for her. The fire over decade ago left the nerves endings dead and useless. She was doing fine, just wonderful, until she happened upon a room with another in it. Immediately she dropped to the floor, trying unsuccessfully to cover her legs, the red filling her cheeks until the point she swore her face would catch fire.
