After a while he couldn't distinguish between

After a while he couldn't distinguish between himself and the murderer.

One moment he was looking at himself in the mirror, the next he was looking at someone insane. Who was he? He needed to retrace his steps. it all started the night before. He was

thinking of different toys that he had that weren't necessarily phallic in nature, but could be applied to contexts that deem a phallic object advantageous. Remembering this fact,

albeit several seconds too late. The orphanage matron was standing in front of him, eying his pilfered prizes. His eyes turned to the nearest exit, but there were

seven maid robots between him and freedom. He grabbed the giant spatula from the matron's apron, and lept for the door, using the spatula as a shield, he almost made it but

slipped on the half-eaten remains of a rotting arm. Skidding across the floor while flailing his arms madly, he suddenly realised that the robots

had never seen him. He cautiously bent down to inspect the damage the robots had caused. with a sudden burst of revulsion, he discovered that the last remaining

scrap was made out of reinforced uranium. "Is that even a real thing" he thought as he picked it up with his bare hands. He swore to himself that he'd

never go through chemotherapy again, but who was he kidding. He had his wife and kids to think about. His wife and kids who love watching him go through chemotherapy.