I don't move. Patrons come to me. Some laugh. Few show pity. I cannot respond to any; speech has been taken from me.
They press codes into my flesh. My skin taught over this inhuman shape.
Their request crawls up my throat and passes through my lips. The judge's sentence focused on giving to account for all of my taking, and in this giving, I have no choice.
Hanging on the wall, waiting for the next customer. Each transaction diminishing what remains of my being.