|Eyes Shut, Eyes Open
Author: Lisa Jane PM
Anaesthesia awareness would be frightening for anyone. But imaging waking up in your operation to find they're doing something else insteadRated: Fiction K+ - English - Horror/Fantasy - Words: 349 - Reviews: 3 - Published: 03-06-05 - id: 1851727
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
'Count back from one hundred.'
'One hundred… ninety-nine… ninety eight…'
Air smells of permanent markers, many of them. Overtaking. Eyes shut, eyes open. Black mask surrounding mouth and nose. Attached by a cord to an unseen cylinder.
'Ninety-seven… ninety-six… ninety-five…'
Shouldn't be taking this long. Should be under by now. Should be able to wake up by ninety with experiment over and vomiting.
'Ninety-four… ninety-three… ninety-two…'
Gloved hand rubbing against pale hand. Eyes shut and stay shut. Good-night.
Eyes open to see bright lights. Three of them. Glaring down. Vision blurred, people in green robes and white masks surrounding.
Eyes shut, eyes open, try to see properly. Dazed. Doctor's hand moves one of the lights, directs it at stomach. Feel hand moving against foot, feel sensation.
Shouldn't be able to feel sensation. Shouldn't be able to see anything.
Try to kick. Can't move ankle. Can't move leg. Can't move.
'Is the subject out?'
Anaesthetist didn't even look.
The scalpel. Silver, sparkling, try to move away as it touches skin but can't. Try to move hand to let someone know. Hand won't move.
This isn't happening. Can't be.
Scalpel slides across skin, into skin, by the hand of a carefully skilled surgeon. Blood slowly welling, dripping.
Slicing. Mind twists in agonising pain. Mind makes up for what body can't do.
No contact from one reality to another.
Heat. Burning. Torture. Excruciating.
Eyes look above. Blue television screen. Mind furrows in confusion.
Insides. Frozen. Scalpel butchering.
Scalpel dives down. Blood thrusts up on the screen. Mirroring that of blood raining down onto skin from inside.
'Another work of art.'
Everyone smiles up at screen.
Blood keeps spurting. Sweat. Blackness closing in.
Eyes lock. Finally. Too late.
'Sir, we have a problem.'
'How do you feel, Untitled #177?'
'Couldn't be worse.'