She is awake, and turns to amble towards a glass portal.

As she maneuvers the simple exit, she determines her next direction, her destination is clear. She calls for a taxi and placing orders the automotive coach lurches off in the “north west” towards the lumberyard.

The journey is calm, save the ceaseless throb of pain emanating from her upper left side.

She pays real money for the cab.

She arrives at the lumberyard and calls for a jimmy to set her up with twenty wooden planks: some six feet tall, some four feet wide, all precut.

She pays good money for the wood.

She shifts about for five days until a cab arrives with enough suitable carriage to ferry her wooden goods. She plainly offers the cab her desire, and she is shot off towards the “south west:” towards a hardware store.

The gash in her back begins to spurt chunky menstrual blood: she cleans up after herself and saves the liquid in case she meets some dirty thieves who try and monkey with her provisions. Monkeys go bananas for “Snatch Shakes”!

She pays honest money for the cab.

The hardware store houses her final desire: a hammer, some nails, two hinges, and a standard issue utility mechanoid (TM) brought in from Denmark.

She pays the last of her earned money for the aforementioned items.

While shambling home, she is stopped by a fiery band of howlers. Instead of fleeing, she mixes up a hot “blood rag n’ schnapps” and tosses it to her lesser-evolved assailants. Smelling the effluent discharge the monkey bandits go bonkers and begin anal fucking each other. “Snatch Shakes” win the day!

She pays no real attention to her would be attackers.

She arrives back at the initiation of her exodus, the catalyst point for her non-sequential journey. The glass door…

She pays no good attention to her return.

Dropping her sought after goods, she stretches out her hunched back. Lying down, she utilizes the hard wood in the floors to adjust to her mutilated flesh.

Although she thinks that she is doing herself some good, she is in fact damaging herself a great deal. With her open fleshy scapula labia squished against the dirt and shit of her floor, tiny germs and parasites begin to enter her like little sperm. They swim deep inside of her and begin fertilizing her muscle with a child: a worm.

Against the ground, she waits for three years. When she finally does stand up after her 1095 day R and R, she realizes that she is not alone.

Perched upon her back is a fleshy parrot. Emanating from the depths of her disfigurement is the physically manifested bane of her special hole. An obvious tattoo of her shame and her pain: the parasite perpetual.

The parrot makes an awful squawking sound, which accuses her shame directly, openly. Like a bull trying to fuck a goldfish.

Solemnly, she raises her hammer and begins constructing a six-foot by four-foot box (with hinges and lid).

She pays no honest attention to her better judgment.

The completion of the box ushers in a wave of cathartic orgasm for this thing, our heroin. She climbs inside, and directs her standard issue utility mechanoid (TM) to nail the cell shut.

The “parrot”, having nothing to do except read Shakespeare during its hosts concentrated work effort, offered this random advice as limited by its biological ability, just before the lid was shut down forever:

“To die, to sleep –
To sleep – perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.”

She pays the last of her attention to her mutated flesh. Although the being growing along side of her, off of her, is incapable of providing any “real good honest” advice, she is capable of receiving it when it comes along.

She ceases the mechanoid (TM), and heads to a psychiatrist for a spot of emotional surgery.

In time, she learns to lick her pussy wound, cleaning it out before letting it become too infected.