The stump of my wrist begins to swell, ruined skin and bone stretching until it bursts. From the dark, bloody hole left behind, dozens of small, fleshy tendrils writhe towards Trilby. They twist and twine around each other, and as they get nearer, the pointed ends spiral open, to reveal a tiny man sitting in the lotus position. The men all look up towards trilby, and whisper
[i/]"no"[/i]
Then, slowly, they begin to melt, flesh dripping and sloughing until only a skeleton remains. Soon, even that is gone with the wind.