It didn't matter how much she screamed, “I'm not her,” because I was a neurosurgeon, and I knew what to do.
The draft was kept in a museum with a one-sentence summary nobody knew how to read.
When the firefighters finally arrived, they asked me where the fire was.
Like when a thing, place, or hobby no longer feels the same and loses its magic.
“Mom, this is Anna, my bestie,” she said, introducing me to a mannequin wearing her mother’s photograph, its hand reaching out in greeting.
“Mom, this is Anna,” she said, and the mannequin with a woman’s photograph glued to its face turned its head toward me.
I feel like the first paragraph a bit excessive.
I know it's difficult to give a thorough evaluation from a snippet, but any feedback is appreciated.
Here is the text:
Had I displayed a freshly murdered corpse, that face would have looked less horrified. The sleepy eyes, which I thought nothing in the world could shake, bulged out at the thing I squeezed tight under my right armpit. The shrill voice that seized every chance to ramble found itself trapped behind a tightened throat. My lanky arms wavered, and the thing fluttered onto the leather carpet of my bedroom. I collapsed down instinctively, snatching the thing before it struck the floor too hard. The pale face was still staring blankly into the distance, and the pink lips mumbled something unintelligible.
“Mom…” I said, my voice trembling. Good Lord, my whole body was trembling.
“Where did you get this curse from?” It was another mumble, but I was able to make it out.
“Mom, it isn’t a curse. It’s called a boo—”
From that small of a body came a piercing wail the whole town could hear, including my father. Oh! My father was surely on his way to my bedroom. Another punishment. I had committed something greater than a crime. My father would not whip me or starve me this time. Something of the sort would be a gentle retribution for so grave a deed.
“Billie Jean” muffled their piercing screams as a rusty needle stitched their arms together.
When the bully went home, his mother's cold, pale body greeted him with a flip-off.
He took off his mask, and I recognized the face the fire was supposed to erase.
As soon as I caught a glimpse of the drawing, my vision went black.
It's the twentieth time I've passed the same person standing beside the exact same sign tonight, and each time it takes less driving to reach them again.
As I hauled it up with the boat’s winch, dozens of deformed human bodies came up tangled in the mesh.