ellin hopkins

Crank, you see, isn’t any ordinary monster. It’s like a giant octopus, weaving its tentacles not just around you, but through you, squeezing not hard enough to kill you, but enough to keep you from, reeling until you try to get away. Try, and you hunger for its grasping clutch, the way its tendrils prop you up, your need intensifying exponentially every minute you refuse to admit its being.