I have nothing to offer, I have nothing to say. I define myself with silence, by inaction, through hopelessness. I will restrain every pointless atom of my being until I achieve permanent paralysis and sterility. I will do nothing, think nothing, believe nothing; and I wish only for the continuation of this powerless condition. I mouthed these words as I examined myself in the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. Skirmish was dozing peacefully on the top bunk, undisturbed by my activity or the pale dawn light filtering into the room through the open curtain. I hadn’t slept much, having spent most of the night considering his offer very carefully. The silence and darkness had focused my mind, but I’d failed to reach a firm decision. I am nothing. In the mirror I saw a man. He was naked. He stood on two clumsy wedges of flesh, terminating in eight skinny toes. Bony shins bent outwards from the ankles to the knees; thin thighs bent inwards from the knees to the waist. The pale skin of his pin-cushion legs was stitched with coarse black hairs, running upwards to the pubic triangle, in which a loose, useless stump of a penis nestled.
