### You can no longer tell where the dead man ends and the warehouse begins. His limbs, glowing in the dark, now carpet the floor in overlapping zigzags. Spirals of fungus grow out of torn skin. The room smells dank and moldy. The closer I get to shelf K37 and 38 the denser the limbs become. They loop over and back on each other creating mounds of flesh. I climb up, stumbling every few steps. My foot gets lodged in a hole. I yank it out. The alarm I tripped on my way in continues to ring. I’ll be done before anyone can stop me. The limbs begin to recede. They become more structured, woven together. Then, I see it. Right below K37, the limbs have formed a casket. I lift the lid of arms, legs, and elbows. My father’s body sits inside, glowing fluorescent green. His head has regrown correctly this time. Dense moss forms his goatee. The scene feels almost religious. The moonlight streams through the limb-strewn shelves like a stained glass window. I set down the cans of kerosene, and pry his mouth open with my hands. I pick one can back up, unscrew the lid, and pour it down his gullet till it's empty. I do the same with the other can. Police sirens begin to blare outside as I strike the match and flick it into my father’s mouth. His body is immediately consumed, and his limbs are like fuses. The fire eats them up with a hunger leaving behind ashen butterflies floating down from the shelves. I sit down on the charred ground where my father’s casket was and smile at the ceiling. A butterfly lands on my nose. I’m free.
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