I don’t know how far people read these things, so up top I’m just going to say if the name “Angela”, the words “Ocras” or “Carapace”, or even the term “weird fucking retreat in the woods” jump out at you then you might be able to help me out.
Anyway, back to the beginning.
Oh, actually, I’ll just apologise in advance if there are any typos, I’m still getting used to typing with… well, look, I’ll get to that when I get to that.
The whole thing started a couple of months ago, really – I was at the school where I work (I teach Maths – or Math to you Americans – and Physics), a place in East London just on the edge of Hackney. It was a good job and I think I was pretty decent with the kids after a few years of utter stress, but I was fairly happy there. So of course I got into a relationship with one of the other teachers, Mr. Wayland in the Geography department. He was a really beardy guy, and very quiet, which is not really my type, but the heart (and other vital organs) wants what it wants.
What the heart doesn’t want, as it turns out, is to be unceremoniously dumped in the corridor a few minutes before assembly.
Long story short, I… over-reacted. And lost Mr. Wayland and my job in one fell swoop.
After that, things get a bit blrry. I had to move in with my great-aunt Nóirín [pronounced No-reen] who’s been in London since the early 80s – a dinky house in Archway where she used to host women coming over for abortions before Ireland legalised it. She still has a lot of comers and goers so she shoved me in the attic.
For the next while, I drank a lot. A LOT a lot. Going out nights, gone for the weekend, clubs, house parties, random guys, whatever. That kind of feeling where you try to fill your brain with so much stuff because you know any time there’s a gap it starts throwing up images of beardy guys who teach Geography. Not sleeping very well, my body seizing up every time I thought of him. That’s love, I guess.
Still, I didn’t take the engagement ring off.
It was on one of those nights out – a Tuesday, even though I had Maths tutoring in a coffee shop first thing Wednesday morning – that I saw the sticker. I’d been chased into the toilets of this club because I’d snuck in a bottle of whiskey, the bouncer had seen me pouring it into my coke in the corner (I’m a party animal, but I’m also thrifty).
I’d locked myself in a cubicle, falling against the wall, staring at the back of the plywood door as the bouncer banged on it. There was a bunch of graffiti – “JANINE SUCKS GUYS OFF FOR STARBUCKS DISCONTS”, that kind of thing – but also a load of stickers. You know, those ones that are impossible to peel off, advertising local grunge bands or miracle protein pills.
But one of them stuck out. It had a strange logo on it, like a circle with two hooks coming out the top, could have been a weird emoji. Reminded me of a mathematical symbol. That wasn’t what got my attention though. It was the text.
“IRISH? FUCKED IN THE HEAD? COME TALK TO OCRAS”
I had enough time to smile – why yes, I was Irish and fucked in the head – before I saw the door was about to be kicked in, so I jotted the number at the bottom on my arm before promptly getting booted out of the nightclub.
“Ocras” is the Irish for hunger, by the way. But again, we’ll get to that later.
I called the number the next day. Partly out of curiosity, partly because Nóirín said if I didn’t get my life together she’d be forced to kick me out – or worse, invite my Dad to fly over and drag me back to rural Ireland kicing and screaming.
“Hello? This is Ocras – are you fucked in the head?”
Well, that’s truth in advertising.
I got about three sentences into the story of me and Mister Wayland – Derek, actually, because the romance never ends – before the woman on the other end of the line said that they’d have a van to collect me at my house the following Friday morning.
She hung up before I could get her name.
There was also something odd about her voice – she was Irish, which was handy, but there was something off about her accent, hard to place.
The following Friday the van came to pick me up. It had the word “OCRAS” printed on the side, and that logo again, the circle with the two hooks. Nóirín waved me off – she’d put a packed lunch in my backpac, obviously mortified at the idea that I might be without something for the journey.
The van was being driven by an old, wizened man in a white t-shirt and denim dungarees. He didn’t say a word. Hoping in the back, I saw there was another woman there. Late 20s (a few years younger than me), she was on the phone, having an argument with what sounded like her manager.
“No, because I swapped with Ryan who swapped with Fatima who’s swapping with me.”
Obviously hadn’t quite dealt with getting her Friday off work. I could hear her manager shouting back, calling her “Susan”.
Her accent was English. I’d got the impression this retreat was jut for London Irish, maybe something funded by the embassy or something. They do stuff like that, meals on wheels and céilís in the London Irish Centre.
Susan hung up the phone angrily, avoiding my attempts at a friendly smile.
We rode on in silence.
There were other stops, to pick up more people, all Irish.
Holly, early 40s, a big woman, wkward, all smiles.
Oisín, mid 20s, a huge bodybuilder type (I had trouble not staring – I’m only human).
Jacinta, in her 70s, dragging an old lady trolley into the back, belligerent.
One of our stops was some fancy West London home. This time a couple – the first pick-up involving more than one person. Both of them were in their early 50s: she was immaculately polished, red Galway curls tumbling down her back, he was hiding behind a set of foggy glasses, a clipped South Dublin accent. Their names were Rita and Imran.
As they got into the van, arguing, something clicked in my brain – I recognised them. But from where?
Then I saw Susan had her phone out, playing a clip that had gone viral earlier that Summer – a man giving a lecture in economics on Zoom, while in the background the front door opened and a woman stumbled inside in the arms of another man.
Rita had been caught cheating on Imran live on Zoom, and it had travelled half-way round the world before he thought to shut off his camera.
Celebrities walking among us.
The rest of the trip was punctuted by occasional conversation – mainly Holly, desperate to make friends – but otherwise everyone just seemed… on edge. A lot of fingernails bitten down to the bone, or they’d stare out the window, lost in thought. My mind drifted do Derek, and his beard, and his plaid shirts, as it did about four-hundred thousand times a day.
We got dropped off at the retreat around lunchtime – my reception had given up about an hour before so I had no idea where we were. Down a long country road, and then to a small reception building, again with that logo. As we got out, the old man in the front caught my eye in the mirror and… winked.
Let’s put him in the “maybe” pile.
The Ocras team were waitin outside the reception building.
Front and centre was Maddy – the woman I’d spoken to on the phone – all pep. Behind her were the rest of the team – she introduced them. Riona was in charge of physical fitness, Yeoman did guided meditation, Constant was our chef.
They were all wearing denim, like the van driver. They looked demented.
And there was something else, about their voices – I only clocked when a few of them spoke, in that non-specific Irish accent, and just as I did Susan leaned into my ear, whispering.
“They’re not Irish.”
She was right – they were putting on the accents. But why?
“Who’s that?”
I saw Imran pointing into the woods – at first I didn’t see what he was pointing at, until I looked up. There was a girl, maybe 15 or 16, in a denim dress, perched high up in the branches. She ws sucking on her thumb.
Maddy’s smile flickered for a moment.
“That’s Leila. A… friend of the program. Now follow me!”
As we trudged through the woods, me and Susan fell into lock-step. I tried talking to her, but again she seemed to have a wall up.
Holly, meanwhile, kept asking about “Angela”. Off my blank look, she explained that Angela was the psychological guru behind Ocras – a miracle worker, apparently. Would change our lives.
Then we were through the trees, and into a large clearing. It was… well, it was beautiful, actually.
An open area, probably the size of a football pitch, peppered with… I want to say yurts? Never really been sure what a yurt is. Tents, all white, some small that were clearly for accommodation, others larger. I could see that one was set up as a sort of cafeteria.
Maddy told us we could drop off our bags and change.
I went into my yurt – it was pristine, nice comfy bed, with clothes ready to wear (a black smock-like top and bottoms, black sandals). Fancy. I’d paid for the Ocras experience, but I hadn’t paid enough for this.
Then I saw it. In the corner, there was an easel – and sitting on it a picture.
Of Derek. It looked like it might have been pulled from Instgram, but I didn’t have time to think about it – soon I was doubled over on the bed, shedding tears. I felt like an idiot, but that was why I was here, because every time I thought of him it hurt, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him, so I hurt all the time.
The picture on the easel didn’t help, but maybe that was the point.
After wiping off my tears and getting changed, I stopped by Susan’s yurt – she was changed too. It suited her, weirdly. I noticed there was an easel in the corner, but there was no picture on it – maybe there hadn’t been one, or maybe Susan had gotten rid of it already. She looked at me.
“I am Irish, by the way. My family, we bouncd around a lot. I’m not faking it, like them.”
She seemed weirdly ashamed – Irish people can be pretty shitty gatekeepers of who is and isn’t deserving of the moniker. She asked me why I was here.
“Boy trouble.”
Susan looked to the empty easel in the corner.
“Me too. Boy trouble.”
We joined the others in the clearing, where Maddy had a free-standing board with the 3-day timetable on it. Amid the usual faff – ‘yoga’, ‘wellness’, ‘dietetics’ – three Irish words stood out: ‘OSCAIL’, ‘BRIS’, ‘CEANGAIL’. Day 1, Day 2, Day 3.
Susan looked peplexed – I leaned in, pronouncing the words in my best Gaelic accent.
“Us-cull, briss, kyan-gill. Open, break, change.”
Maddy smiled.
That first day was fairly normal, by all accounts. A lot of what you’d expect, very Goop-y. A run, some yoga, catered meals, guided meditation. Rita and Imran looked pissed off, like they’d paid a lot for this – more than me and Susan – and weren’t pleased with the results.
After dinner, me and Susan were hanging in her yurt – she’d thawed a little, telling me she worked in a supermarket in Harringay (not far from my aunt actually) and it was a bastard to get the whole wekend off.
Then we noticed Holly standing in the doorway – that perpetual smile. So desperate to make friends. Rita and Imran were with her.
“Did you guys Google this place?”
We said we had, of course, but didn’t find anything. Rita looked impatient, but Holly continued.
“Me too. But I don’t pay for anything without checking what I’m spending my money on. So I dug into that phone number we called, found it registered to a holding company called ‘Carapace’.”
Imran yawned. Holly continued.
“Yeah, I know, so what. But get this – Carapace doesn’t just own Ocras. It’s also an umbrella company that has regisrtations for businesses called Eclipse, Lord Of Love, Schmooze+, more. I couldn’t find much, but they’re all retreats. All one-off, never repeating themselves, no reviews anywhere. Isn’t that suspicious?”
Rita scoffed.
“That’s not suspicious, that’s capitalism.”
“We already know they’re lying about being Irish. What else are they lying about?”
Before any of us could answer, though, there was a loud gong from outside – we were being summoned.
Out in the setting sun, we saw all the other participants – maybe twenty-five or thirty of us in total – were gathered in a circle. Maddy and the other staff to the side, on edge, excited, maybe a little scared. The sinewy old man who’d driven us there was staring at me. Another wink. Something stirred in my smock. Christ I’m predictable.
We joined the circle, and that’s when we heard her.
“Show me where it hurts.”
We all looked – there was a woman walking out of the forest. She wasn’t wearing denim, instead she was in a long, flwing red dress. She was black, a tight haircut, strong jaw. Beautiful. The famous Angela.
She walked slowly, purposefully, out into the middle of the circle. And when she spoke again, it was clear she was the only staff member who was actually Irish – flawless accent, Galway probably, outside the city but not completely rural.
She spoke again.
“That’s the rub, isn’t it?”
She patted herself.
“It’s not here. Or here. Or here. You don’t have shin splints. You don’t have a ruptured artery. There isn’t a piece of glass lodged in your eyeball. It’s not cancer.”
She smiled.
“My name is Angela Riordan. I’m from Clonberne, County Galway. Been in the UK for about 30 years. I have a PhD in clinical psychology from King’s College and over twenty years of practical experience as well as research papers published on OCD, OCPD, out-group homogeneity and mass hysteria. I’m a consultant lecturer at Queen Mary and London Met, am accredited by the BPS and APA, and sit on the board of Europsyche.”
She nodded to the staff, now brmiming with anticipation.
“You are on a journey here at Ocras. In essence, to show me where it hurts. But you shouldn’t have to listen to a list of credentials. Leila, please.
We followed her gaze, and saw that teenage girl in the denim dress walking into the circle. Angela took her hand – warm, motherly.
“Some of you will have seen my daughter. When she was much younger, she was in a car accident and received a blood transfusion. The donor had vCJD. Several years later Leila began experiencing symptoms. She should be dead. She is not.”
Leila looked at us. A little shaky, squeezing her mother’s hand.
“Mother healed me. Made me better. She is very skilled and I hope you will let her help you.”
Angela smiled.
“At Ocras we understand that the brain is labyrinthine. It has its own beasts. Intrusive thoughts. Obsessive recursions. Variant Creutzfelt-Jakob disease.”
She reached into the pocket of her dress, and pulled out a bottle of pills.
Suddenly Maddy was going around the circle with a pen and clipboard.
“In here I have one pill for each of you – 5 grams of psilocybin. An approximation of magic mushrooms. We’re here to… “oscail”… to open your brains. At a 5 gram dosage the effects should be minimal. I’m asking you to trust me, and sign.”
I’d like to say we were spooked – but we just signed. We were there because we were desperate.
We took the pills. Lay down on the grass. And eventually… saw things.
For me it was Derek. My engagement ring, on my finger, spinning, spinning, spinning. Other visions.
That bodybuilder guy, Oisin, was doing push-ups and talking to himself.
Susan was crying.
And then… nothing.
I woke up in the darkness. I was warm, comfortable. In bed. No idea how much time had passed. Maybe I’d crawled back to my yurt, maybe someone had put me there. But I could hear a noise… and feel something.
I grabbed my phone, turned on the torch…
…and saw that Leila was licking my toes. She was at the end of the bed, my feet out from under the covers, tongue out, hungry. I let out a yelp, pulling my feet back under. Leila backed away, almost offended.
And then I saw Angela watching from the entrance to the yurt.
She clicked her fingers… and I passed out again.
The next morning, over breafast, I tried to explain what had happened – Holly nodded along, while Rita told me I’d taken magic mushrooms, of course I’d seen some weird shit.
Susan just seemed withdrawn, eyes red raw from crying.
We all looked awful. My joints seemed to be at me, aching, especially my ring finger. Susan looked pale. Holly kept scoffing her food, like she hadn’t eaten for days. Maybe it was just the psilocybin wearing off.
Day 2 was similar to Day 1. Running, yoga, guided meditation, bespoke meal plans. We had one on one meetings with Maddy where she talked about creating the perfect CV. So far, so dull.
But when the sun started to set, we knew it wouldn’t be long before Angela made an appearanc.
Last night had been ‘Oscail’ – ‘open’. Today was ‘Bris’ – ‘break’.
Maddy told us that this would take the form of personalised therapy, in Angela’s yurt. One by one we lined up, waiting until we were called. Until it was our turn.
It was sparse, empty but for a worn couch at the centre. Not nice enough to be a therapist’s couch. And no chair for her. I sat down. She sat on the armrest, perched in her red dress. Up close I noticed her lipstick was slightly… off. Her eyeliner too. Loose threads on the hem of her dress. Dirt under her fingernails.
“Show me where it hurts.”
I started crying. Thinking about Derek. I wasn’t getting better here, I told her, I was thinking about him more than I ever had before. And it was starting to hurt, like actually physically hurt. I asked her what that meant. I asked her what was wrong with me.
Angela just smiled, and said “dinner”.
I looked at her – a gong rang from outside. From the cafeteria.
I grabbed my food in the big yurt – the chef, Constant, looked worn out, under-nouirshed. So did Maddy and the others, to be fair. Like they were under as much strain as us.
I joined the others at a table. They were all subdued. Susan looked at me, then curiously at my forehead. She reached out, and pulled something off that was stuck to my face…
…it was a piece of eggshell. Holly piped up.
“There’s blood too. On your face. Don’t think it’s yours.”
For a moment, I had a strange flash of memory – of Angela, holding an egg, cracking it on my head, but… when had that happened? Just now? Surely I’d remember?
And that pain I’d been feeling all day, that ache in my bones, was getting worse.
That’s when I saw the old man who’d driven us there – I’d learned his name was Ezra – walking past the cafeteria. Again, he was looking at me, and again he seemed… interested.
He also had a set of keys dangling off his denim dungarees.
I got up and… well, I’ll spare you the details but suffice to say I got a hold of his keys. And had a good time in the process. There’s something to be said for a lean, mildly creepy older man, is all I’m saying.
After the gong had gone for bed, I went to the others’ yurts – Susan, Holly, Rita, Imran – collecting them. And with everyone else asleep, we headed for the reception building. I figured if these people were going to crack bloody eggs on our heads and wipe our memories we at least deserved to know a little more about them.
The place couldn’t have been more than a few rooms. A reception with a welcome desk, and behind it an office. We snuck in, quiet (bar Rita thwacking her shin off a coffee table).
Angela’s office. Boring, beige furniture – but still it felt… weird. But was that enough? What if it felt weird because it was weird to be so fucked in the head that you went to a retreat out in the middle of nowhere.
But while I was standing there wondering about the morality and legality of breaking into Angela’s office, Rita started rifling through the desk – one drawer was locked, so she kicked it until it gave way.
“What the fuck are these?”
We gathered round her – she’d found a pile of Polaroids in the desk. Pictures, of us, taken in private moments. The one of me, I was lookin deeply hungover in the corner of a café. I flipped it over, there was writing on the back, but then we heard a noise – Angela’s voice – and had to retreat into what seemed like a closet off the office. I left the door open a peak, looking through while the others kept quiet behind me.
I saw the office door open again, and Angela come in – there was a woman with her, who had a baby strapped to her chest. She was angry, but also a little scared.
“When he agreed to come here—”
Angela cut her off.
“When he agreed to come here he was this close to being fired for sexual harassment and for taking a dump in the hotel lobby during the last sales conference. A real charmer, your Seb was. Like all our ‘Schmooze+’ clients.”
Schmooze, that other retreat. And “was”.
The woman tried to speak, but Angela was suddenly on her, snatching the baby out of her hands and pinning it suddenly to the wall. The baby didn’t cry. It didn’t seem to hurt. She looked to the woman. I wanted t intervene, to step out, but suddenly I felt… paralysed. Weak.
“Your husband was a bad man. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? And remember that I have your address.”
Angela gently took the baby back in her arms – it smiled at her, comfortable – and handed it back to the woman. Who scarpered.
I looked back to the others – but then I was hit with that woozy feeling again. Something was wrong. Susan was completely zoned out, hanging on to the wall for purchase. Imran was chewing his jaw. Rita had her knuckles clenched, while Holly was staring at the ground. I turned back to the door in time to see—
“Boo.”
Angela. Staring at me. I tumbled backward, collapsing into the others, on to my back, looking around, scrambling…
…I was in a corridor. Surely this place couldn’t be this big?
I started running, pushing past the others, thinking about myself, about getting away, about the fact that there must have been some more hallucinogens in the dinner we just had, and then thinking about Derek, about Derek, about Derek, my bones feeling more and more squeezed…
…I went around a corner, another corner, another corner (how big could this place be?)…
…and then I saw him. A little boy. A hallucination. Had to be. He wasn’t moving, just standing there. I felt a presence behind me, and saw Susan stumbling along the corridor too. She rounded the corner beside me and… screamed.
Staring at the boy. She saw him too. She started shaking, speaking under her breath…
“He can’t be… he can’t be…”
She looked at me.
“That’s my son… but he’s… he’s… he’s dead.”
So that’s what she meant by “boy trouble”. Made me and my crush on Derek seem pretty inconseuqential.
I could hear Angela prowling down the corridors – “Show me where it hurts” she sang – so I grabbed Susan, opened the nearest door, tumbled inside.
My foot slipped as we slammed the door behind us, and then I stumbled, down a step, another, Susan falling with me. A flight of stairs. Which was impossible, right? This was some temporary structure in the middle of the woods. It didn’t have a basement, never mind one with stone walls.
I looked over at Susan. She’d been knocked unconscious.
The room was small, sparse, the only furniture a misshapen leather chair in the corner. The only light was coming through the edges of the door.
I shook Susan, trying to wake her up, and then… I heard something.
A groan. From the chair. I looked over, nobody was sitting on it. Then I looked closer… and I understood.
The chair was Oisín.
What I’d mistaken for a leather chair was actually… muscle. Overgrown muscle, mounds of it, and as I inched closer I could see a face, swallowed by sinew.
The eyes opened. He was looking at me.
“I get it now.”
Tears rolled down the muscle.
I turned, standing up, terrified, clawing up those steps, throwing open the door – and Angela was right there. I grabbed her, shoved her past me, heard her tumble down the steps, hard, and crack at the bottom. Silence.
I looked back down the steps.
It wasn’t Angela.
It was her daughter, Leila. She wasn’ moving. Her eyes were open. Her neck was twisted.
I passed out.
By the time I woke up again, it was the next day, the Sunday, maybe mid-afternoon – and I was in the clearing again.
My bones were aching, tendons on fire. Felt like I’d been hit by a car. My ring finger felt like it was going to burst.
I saw the circle of people standing around me, the participants, the other staff, Angela too.
And then I saw Leila lying beside me. Her eyes were closed but in the light I could see her neck was horribly broken.
I looked up at Angela.
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t smile.
“It’s okay. It wasn’t on the schedule, but there are things we can do.”
I flinched. Her accent wasn’t Irish anymore. It was English, cut-glass. Guess she did a good impression. She turned to the circle of people around her.
“You’ll all remember that I saved my daughter once. I’d really, really like to do it again. Will you help?”
I tried to sit up, but was too weak. And that’s when I noticed that I was handcuffed to Leila’s body. Panicked, I looked to the first friendly face I could find: Holly.
“Please…”
For the first time that weekend, Holly didn’t smile at me. She seemed… determined.
“She helped me. I’m… it doesn’t seem possible but I’m pregnant. I got what I wanted.”
The others seemed like that too – serene. I looked to Susan, desperate, but she shook her head.
“I saw my son. I might see him again. Isn’t… isn’t that something worth fighting for?”
Then, coldly…
“We just met. We don’t know each other. We’re not friends.”
Angela smiled. Looked down at me.
“Let’s tell your story, shall we? Who’s Derek Wayland?”
My stomach fell. I pulled at the handcuffs. No use.
“He’s… he’s this guy, I work with, we were in a relationship, but it ended, and—”
“And on the 16th of June of this year, you pushed him through a pane of glass at your school – Mr. Wayland receiving substntial injuries.”
I should stop here, and explain, and apologise. When I said earlier that I didn’t take it well, Derek dumping me, I might have undersold it. I… I just knew, as soon as he ended it, how much pain I was going to be in, how much pain I’m always in, and for a moment… I just wanted him to feel that pain to.
I wish… I wish… I wish that was all I lied about.
Angela kept going.
“That on 18th September 2017…”
That was Jim. Another guy. This one was actually married, to a woman. The relationship ended with me being escorted from his house and a caution for stalking.
Another, Victor. We went out for a while. Then I declared my love for him in front of a whole bar and ended up falling through a table. He had to change his number.
There were others, too.
I think there’s a lot of shame in that, in not being able to turn your feelings off. It’s always been like that with me. That’s why I came to Ocras. The shame.
But in that moment, lying on the ground, everyone staring at me, Angela reeling off my darkes secrets, it wasn’t shame I was feeling – it was agony. I was writhing back and forth, my bones on fire, feeling like I was about to break in two, screaming at Angela to stop, stop, stop, I was going to snap, whatever she was doing it was going to kill me, I was sorry, I was sorry, I was sorry…
…and then I felt Leila move. I looked over. She was turning her head, neck sliding back into its rightful position. Blinking.
Angela stopped, looking down at me.
“There.”
She clicked her fingers – and everyone passed out.
We woke to the smell of smoke – every yurt in the clearing, big or small, was on fire. Angela, Leila and the others were gone. The rest of us, those who’d signed up for a get-well weekend, had to trudge through the trees, back to the road. And onwards, trying to find civilisation.
That was a week ago.
We didn’t go to the police. We couldn’t quite figure out if a crime had been committed. Besides, everyone hated me. I think they thought I’d cut the weekend short, they’d missed out on something. They weren’t healed yet.
That’s not the issue, though.
The issue is with my bones.
I don’t feel better since I lef, I feel worse. The pain is difficult to manage – though Aunt Nóirín has given me some leftover oxycontin from when she had knee surgery.
I thought maybe it would go away, but every time I think of Derek, it gets worse.
And then, yesterday… I actually ran into him. I was doing a big shop, supplies for the house, laden down with plastic bags. And I saw him.
He came up to me. Said he hoped I was getting the help I needed (little did he know). I apologised for what I’d done to him. Gently. He walked away.
I waved after him, my left hand in the air, and as I did…
…my ring finger snapped in two.
Just like that. From nowhere.
So now I see what this retreat has given me. My bones, a constnt pressure, until they snap.
A crush.
That’s what my Polaroid had written on it, the one I found in the desk in Angela’s office. That word: “CRUSH”. Seems fitting.
There were other words, on the other Polaroids. I wonder if the same thing is happening to the others. I’ll have to find them, and ask them.
I don’t know if what’s happening to me will get worse quickly or it will get worse slowly, but I know it will get worse.
So I’m asking: has anyone heard of Angela? Has anyone heard of Ocras? Of Carapace? Of fucking Schmooze+ or Lord of Love or Eclipse?
Does anyone know what they’ve done to me?
Does anyon know if it will affect the others as well?
Does anyone know how long I’ve got before every bone in my body breaks?
Please help.