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The crowd cheered and cheered at my suffering. I could see it, in spite of everything.
When I was displayed as a trophy and the masses seemed satisfied, they threw my remains into a basket.
The few remaining seconds of my vision before I died at last were spent staring at the wicker basket containing my severed head.
Suddenly, my eyes opened again.
The basket was moving on its own, crawling.
I looked around and saw dozens of baskets with heads in them, some chewed off, with expressions of infinite horror.
The massacre had begun.
The trophy baskets were coming to life, thirsting for more victims.