Like this, you can't move, oh, no, you can't. Your nerve endings are exposed, and your body is on fire. You are just a slick thing on a table, the redolence of saltsweet thickness pooling and cooling under your back. A moan is teased out of your lungs by the random firings of an agonized nervous system. Your assailant lurks in the corners of your vision, the noise and hideous chemical smells suggesting someone hard at work. You know the smell. Your daddy tanned hides for your winter warmth when you were young. You whimper, trembling, trying not to move, but you can't help it. And so cold, you are so cold, the insides exposed to the elements, its scabrous clotting oozing surface ill-equipped as a dermis substitute. You cry, your glands sending stinging paths along your cheek. The sobs wrack you, and stars, the blackest ever, pool in from the edges of your vision, a roaring static that reduces all light to pinpricks and you fervently hope, gasping, that the light goes away and never comes back.