Sizzle
Laid open in a red ruin before you is your arm. The flaps of skin are expertly taped back. You are the nurse, handing the doctor the scalple. You are the intern, ready with clamps and gauze.
You are the surgeon, opening the the wrist of this trauma victim, using forecepts to try and pick out the glassy slivers of madess which hide between wormy rolling veins and tight ligiments, and bob in the slow river of blood.
You may have to amputate.
It'll be okay.
You know for a fact that you are abnormal. You suspect that there is something rotting and black lolling in the cavern of your ribs, a little ticking bomb which urges you to deconstruct. You have no intention of harm, which implies that there is reparable damage done to the whole, you want to seperate the elements which make you up. You need to see if you are like everyone else, pink and white and red and green and blue and purple. Are you the living, slimy rainbow of the pigs you disected years ago? Are these even your real hands?
The blade of the knife sits in the red coils of the burner, heating. People see razor lines and they know. They wouldn't question such serious wounds. No one would intentionally brand themselves so viciously.
Maybe.
You are the surgeon, opening the the wrist of this trauma victim, using forecepts to try and pick out the glassy slivers of madess which hide between wormy rolling veins and tight ligiments, and bob in the slow river of blood.
You may have to amputate.
It'll be okay.
You know for a fact that you are abnormal. You suspect that there is something rotting and black lolling in the cavern of your ribs, a little ticking bomb which urges you to deconstruct. You have no intention of harm, which implies that there is reparable damage done to the whole, you want to seperate the elements which make you up. You need to see if you are like everyone else, pink and white and red and green and blue and purple. Are you the living, slimy rainbow of the pigs you disected years ago? Are these even your real hands?
The blade of the knife sits in the red coils of the burner, heating. People see razor lines and they know. They wouldn't question such serious wounds. No one would intentionally brand themselves so viciously.
Maybe.