Remarkable things happen within the intricate engineering construct named Life. It is a vast, spinning mechanism holding a billion cells, each serving a distinct purpose. One of these cells contains our subject, Pin, his spouse, Pinna, and two fine children: Pin 1 and Pin 2. Their family, along with all the other inhabitants of the Life construct, lies motionless, each on their own travelator. They are firmly secured in positions strictly outlined in yellow paint and marked with the number of their personal space on the walkway. Each morning, the construct’s internal mechanisms administer injections to all inhabitants using long, sinuous wires tipped with needles. This morning dose is called 'Vigor.' Afterward, Pin’s travelator carries him away to another cell, while his wife and children are likewise transported to separate compartments. Inside their cell, the construct uses large metal forceps to stretch the children's arms and legs, pull their heads upward, and extend their lips, pinning them into a smile. There, they are pumped with injections of 'Socialization,' 'Society,' 'Worldview,' and 'Happy Childhood.' Pin and Pinna are carried away to cells where they are inserted into narrow, specialized openings. Their task is to fill these openings completely. A dedicated press will ram them into these slots to ensure the construct operates efficiently and remains stable. The travelator brings Pin to his opening. Next to him is another inhabitant of the construct: Screw. His mechanism will thread him into a designated socket. Before the screwing begins, Screw is pumped with injections of 'Loyalty,' 'Sense of Duty,' 'Diligence,' 'Status,' 'Patriotism,' 'Imperial Greatness,' and a final dose of 'Joy.' Having received the injections, Screw cheerfully asks Pin: 'Why so blue, neighbor?' Pin replies: 'I want to ask the construct something.' Screw says: 'Then ask! Just yell at the top of your lungs, otherwise it might not hear you over the roaring screams. You’ll receive your answer by registered mail within a month, delivered straight to your cell.' Right then, a massive, agile screwdriver slots into Screw's head. Blood gushes out, splattering Pin's face. The screwdriver twists Screw into the socket with such force that his head snaps off and rolls away down the travelator. Pin immediately screamed at the top of his lungs: "Life! Why?! What for?!" Next, he received the exact same sequence of injections as the obliterated Screw. Then, a heavy press rammed Pin into the opening, crushing his head into a bloody pulp that dripped thick drops of brain. A month later, the stretched-out Pin 1 and Pin 2 received a letter. Hesitantly, and with trembling hands, they read the response: "Question 1: Why? Answer: Because. Question 2: What for? Answer: Therefore. Sincerely, the 'Life' construct."

A red glow shone dimly in the darkness. The light was steady, regardless of how weak it was. It shone, and shone, and shone. The room was so, so dark. The black was oppressive, digging its claws into our shoulders and forcing us upright. The red light shone on. Occasionally, as time continued to slither by, we would feel something on the back of our neck. It was hot, like a breath. It stunk, like rot. It melted and mixed with the smell of burning meat that filled the darkness. It scared us, but the chair and the cloth that tied us down did not let us move away. We could only look into the darkness. Our voice was long since gone: our tongue was gone or we had screamed ourselves hoarse. We couldn’t remember which. The red glowed and glowed on. Faintly we could hear something past the darkness. Perhaps it was laughter, perhaps screaming. The jingle of bells, however, we knew well. They rung both past the dark and inside the fabric eating us whole. Our teeth hurt. The fabric was scratchy against our skin. Perhaps it was cotton, perhaps it was silk, perhaps it was stinging nettle. It did not matter, for it torn into our flesh the same. It did not matter. There was nothing we could do. We waited. We waited. We wait. Cheers ring through the air, through the darkness. We jolt, as much as we can. Our eyes widen, slightly, invisible. The darkness begins to lower, impossibly, terrifyingly. The cheers grow louder, as do the bells. As the darkness drips off of our feet, we look around, the red light still glowing. The darkness still lingers, hidden behind and around the crowds of people staring up at us, eyes wide with delight and mouths ripped open in laughter. A loud voice rings out from right next to us, and we twist our neck and head to see it. The darkness stands next to us. It smiles, too many teeth. Its eyes glow red. “Welcome one and all, to the Circus of Horrors and Oddities! I do hope all here tonight have prepared for the monstrosities and curiosities soon to be revealed.” The crowd screams in joy. The darkness turns to us and bows, flamboyant and extraordinary. “First, before you meet anything else, I would find myself remiss if I did not introduce you all to our oldest friend.” We step forward. Our body knows what to do. We pull out three red and yellow and blue balls. We toss the balls into the air and catch them, higher and higher to the screams of the crowd. Our body contorts as we toss the balls impossibly high, higher than the fabric ceiling. We land back on our feet just moments before the balls land in our hands. Perfect. Choreographed. Practiced. The crowd screams. The darkness laughs. We see our reflection in the red eyes of the darkness. Our red nose glows, dim. Constant.

‘And so, I must die tonight.’ He hid in the darkest part of the room. Crouched deep in the corner, between where the two walls adjoined. He clutched a knife that was surprisingly warm, as though it had been misused. The curtains were poorly closed, but the moonlight cracked through the gap. Hundreds of dust caught in its gaze danced under its spotlight. It didn’t reveal anything about the room itself, no distinctive features to suggest a bedroom or living room. Only it had a window and a corner. ‘I must die… yes.’ He grumbled his words, grinding his teeth. The room was disturbed by an agonising drawn out muffled groan—his groan. The cutting of flesh… followed by the peeling of something refusing to let go. It sounded like adhesive bandages, but stickier. A satisfactory moan of relief replaced the whining, then a plop. Something was thrown across the room. When it hit the floorboards, it landed with a bit of weight and sounded like a wet sponge. Relieved but not done. ‘More…’ His whimpering torment amplified. The knife sliced into unseen flesh, but the sounds… the slow, struggling cuts where the blade needed more force, where it lodged itself a few times, scraping bone. He snivelled. It became unbearable, but he was forced… encouraged to not stop. And like before, he flung something across the room where it hit the wall with a thud. ‘More… for me.’ It wasn’t his voice this time. Someone else was inside the room with him. A young boy, no older than five. ‘A little more… papa.’ The boy was calm, patient, and cold. Their words carried no passion, only curiosity. ‘... okay.’ He mustered a single word. ‘It’s too dark. I can’t see,’ the boy said. ‘Alright,’ he answered. He pushed himself up, ambled forward, unsteady, and yanked one half of the curtains back. The moonlight took advantage and bared it all. The man bathed under its silver light. A triangular symbol △ smeared in blood on forehead and knife in hand. In his arms was the mutilated naked body of his son. Carved up like a roasted pig. ‘Can you see?’ the man asked. ‘Yes, papa,’ the man answered himself. His voice mimicked the child. ‘Show me you love me.’ ‘Always…’ he replied, ‘... anything for you, Ishafet.’ He wrapped the knife into the corpse’s hand and held them both tightly within his. He drove the blade deep into his own throat. Blood sprayed everywhere like a sprinkler. He gargled, unable to scream due to the severed vocal cord. Before he toppled back into the corner, his son was still in his arms, where he hit the wall and bled out to death. And the room now fell dormant. A father’s deranged act of old tributes to a forgotten worship. Accepted by the dark. Worthy of this Ishafet. A soft, barely faint voice stirred in the newly acquainted stillness. A voice that shouldn’t exist. ‘Do it again… papa.’