Horrid 30. Everything You Love is Made of Wax

I went to hug my daughter, but her skin felt unnaturally smooth—slick and slightly warm. When I pulled away, my hand left deep, permanent fingerprint indentations in her cheek. Panic set in. I ran to the kitchen to grab my phone, but the plastic softened and dripped through my fingers like honey.

I looked at the dinner on the table; the steam was actually white smoke, and the steak was a molded block of paraffin. Then, the sun hit the window. My daughter didn't scream; she just started to slump. Her features blurred, her nose dripping onto her chin, her eyes sliding down her face like blue marbles in a melting sundae. I reached out to catch her, but my own fingers fused together into a single, blunt stump. The world isn't real. It’s a gallery, and someone just turned up the heat. I am a puddle on the floor now, and I can hear the "Artist" coming with a wick to start the fire.