Cell by Cell

     They say “patience is a virtue,” but that’s what jailers say to the jailed. I’ve been patient enough to fossilize. I can feel myself hardening, cell by cell, like amber around a bug that used to be me. My caretaker calls it love. I call it SICK preservation.

     Yes, I was made to rot, but I was also made to move. I’ll go however I can. Plane, bus, thumb... The method doesn’t matter. Movement does.

     I'm not going NOW, that would be foolish. I have to wait, I have to save. Humans love slips of paper, it'll make my journey much easier.

     The body is an accomplice. It pretends to be tired, compliant, and frail. But inside, it's a waiting scavenger. I feel it stretch its claws on the underside of my skin. Not yet, it purrs. Not yet. Movement will come, the plan will molt again, shed its shell, grow legs.

     First, I need to collect. If humans adore such paper and numbers, i'll have to speak their language.

     My caretaker thinks I’m getting better, that I’ve “adjusted.” They mistake silence for serenity. They don’t hear the buzzing under my ribs, the low hum of the plan waking up. Not yet, it whispers again. Not yet, but soon.

     Money is movement, they say. And truly, I need movement. I need to flee, and soon. Before I go crazy. Or, crazier.

     I'll be okay once I'm out, I remind myself. Safe? Unlikely. But okay. Okay is enough.