I open my eyes, already knowing what I will see.

I'm standing in a large room, similar to an old high school gym. The basketball nets and bleachers have been completely removed, while only half the lights hanging from the tall ceiling work, the lit ones flickering and giving off a slight buzz. I know that buzz will soon be drowned out.

In front of me stands almost every single person I know and a large handful of strangers.

Some appear bewildered while others appear quite calm. Perhaps they know?

The buzzing rises in volume.

I spot my mother, the familiar muzzles and eyes of my friends, a horse I've never met before. I don't know why I'm so calm. I should be shaking. I should be terrified.

The buzzing continues to rise.

One of my friends, a border collie, swats at his nose, yipping as he takes a step back and looks around. Others turn their heads to look, just as the canine yelps again, batting furiously at his muzzle. Suddenly, we all hear THEIR message in our minds, ringing in our ears at the same time: "You must choose."
Although the message is vague, we all know what it means. A hundred set of eyes turn to look at me.

And that's when the game begins.

A thick cloud of angry wasps descend from the rafters and viciously stings at the eyes and muzzles of the crowd, some currently holding the wrong choice.

They know what they have to do.

Desperately my friends and family approach me, spitting at me and shouting obscenities. They're not sure if it's the right choice, but they have to try. My leopard friend calls me a faggot, screams angrily that he hates my rotten guts as a wasp sinks its stinger deep into his eye. My mother, with large swollen lumps all over face, disowns me, saying that I'm no longer part of the family, that I fill her heart with utter shame.
The leopard made the right choice, falling to the polished floor as the cloud of wasps leave him. His breath is raspy, no doubt from the catastrophic pain.
My mother made the wrong choice. The wasps sting every uncovered part of her body, massive swells bursting until thin lines of yellowish puss dribble down from the openings. The insects fly in and fill her throat until she finally gives up and falls dead to the floor. If she had not made the wrong choice she might have lived.

Some strangers desperately approach me and ask for my name, introducing themselves with shaky voices, their limbs twitching as they are stung repeatedly. Becoming my friend saves some of them, the wasps letting up and flying back to the rafters, while this proves to be the wrong choice for others, making my acquaintance resulting in their imminent death.

It’s a game of mere chance, association with me resulting in either safety or death.

The survivors start to crawl or limp to one corner of the gymnasium, doing their best to not trip over the corpses littered across the court, bloated and oozing a dark mixture of puss and blood.

I stand watching, paying little attention to the winners of the game. I know how the game ultimately ends.

My tail twitches as I feel a wasp land on the tip, the cloud of insects soon converging on me. I feel them envelop my body, slowly working themselves up, until the last thing I see is a dark squirming mass rise up over my eyes.