Horror One-Liner

# fiction, 2020-11-01

He hasn’t eaten for a week now. How is he still alive?

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Seven pairs for seven days. But wait, then whose pants am I wearing now?

I touch my hair. It feels like rough paper. Then I touch the face, the body. Are they mine? Certainly not.

You decides not to mind the hands and feet crawling over your body.

I enter the wrong room but people inside look the same.