You asked me to write if I ever found myself losing time. You knew I was lying when I agreed. But you also knew one day I would.
It made no sense. You couldn’t tell me who the visitors were, only that they took away minutes and hours. It was too much. Can you imagine the shock of finding you on the floor, weak from losing blood, but still digging, still muttering about something they’d implanted?
It’s been hours since I started this letter. By the clock at least. I only remember sitting here a minute. I’m afraid I won’t finish.