The girl with the inside-of-an-apple skin can’t stop crying. She sits on a chair that only has three legs and stares at the sunlit flowers through the dusty glass while the flies attack her fingers and does not notice when her cuticles begin to bleed forgotten blood and cannot stir when the flies devour them. Her tears are made of the sweat of children and her skin is rotting as she sits on the chair that only has three legs and cries while the sun continues to light the flowers through the dusty window. She stares and stares and her skin is already halfway to decomposing and the flowers were always dead and the flies reek of cotton and tobacco. Her skin litters the floor and her blood is not her own when it boils from her veins. Her arms are gone and her torso disappears inside a cloud of flies and the stench of tobacco grows stronger. The screams of people with outside-of-an-apple skin are forcing themselves from the flowers and the dusty glass is breaking. The girl keeps crying and the world is covered with dead flowers and they all scream in the voices of people with the wrong kind of apple skin. The girl is almost gone and the flies are not flies at all and they have drowned in the boiling blood that was not hers. The world spins while it melts and all the apples have rotted in their trees.