The women in my life revel in glee, drunk on their powers of life, death, and time itself, fashioning each into a curse from which there is no release.  These women are not wellsprings of life.  Only the harbingers of doom, decay, and malice.

I have clearly not spent my day in the company of Miss Winters.

Doctor Hoffman’s raspy cackle may very well be the last sound I ever hear.  She proclaims innocence, and I have no choice but to trust her.  Nevertheless, it is convenient that my interest in Miss Winters is met by an equal dose of science-gone-awry at the hands of Doctor Hoffman.  I am aging at an indescribably rapid rate. The symptoms are quite describable… chief among them is the withering of my extremities, starting with my hands and radiating inward.  And this is the cure?  I’ve been granted abilities given to few others.  Time is not slow.  It has revealed itself as a rushing, howling wind withering past me in one, relentless blast.  I am passive, submissive to its rage, a victim to its work.  I can hear it howling in my ear.  I am aging to the year that I was born.  Will I go to the dust beyond?  It is only by virtue of the beast within that I retain the power of volition.  And while I will exercise it… for now, I haven’t the will.




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