He awoke to the mind-numbing sensation of pain - an excruciating, tearing pain that swept through his body like a razor-sharp claw, ripping against his abdomen and tearing out his organs, slowly, one by one.
He opened his mouth to scream, but realised he couldn't move a muscle. Every bone in his body, every inch of his fragile frame, had been tightly locked in place. He couldn't open his eyes, or open his mouth, or make any noise at all, but somehow he could still think.
"What was that?" he thought. He could make out a sound in the distance, but it was too muffled to distinguish. What he did know, however, was that this sound, whatever it was, made him feel very unsettled. There was just something so freakishly abnormal about it.
Over time, the sound slowly grew closer and easier to discern. Soon, he recognised voices, multiple voices, all layered on top of one another to create a terrifying symphony of garbled sound. And they weren't normal voices either. No, these were distorted, almost alien, like somebody trying to talk underwater.
Was this just a vivid nightmare? Or perhaps he was slowly going mad, his sanity slowly dripping away, approaching the point where he would no longer be able to form coherent thoughts. He hoped to God it was the former. The very prospect of insanity chilled him to the very core. That eternal state of mental instability, fearing everything and everyone around you, losing every part of who you once were - it's one of those rare occasions where suicide can seem justified, even beneficial. For many, Death seemed like the only escape from their eternal mental prison.
There was, however, a third possibility. This possibility failed to cross his mind until he felt a cold, hard object pierce deep into his skin, followed by the sensation of warm, thick blood rolling down his body and onto the floor.
He was dying.
As he reminded himself of the cold ground he lay on, the multitude of hands holding him down and slicing through him, and the unbearable pain ravishing his entire body, he knew it was true. An image flashed in his mind. A gang of criminals viciously attacking him - in an alleyway, or possibly even at his own home.
Pain had now taken over his body. He could no longer feel the ground beneath him or the iron grips of his attacker's hands. He was hopeless. Once again, he tried to cry out, but to no avail. It was as if his muscles had simply been switched off.
His thoughts became hazy as he slowly felt himself drift out of consciousness. He could no longer endure the pain, and in the same way he had felt his body switch off, he could now feel his mind switching off too.
"God, if you're there," he cried silently. "Please. Let. Me. Out."
***
He opened his eyes expecting to see some Hellish landscape, scorching hot and enveloped in a thick cloud of fire; but, to his surprise, this was nothing like Hell at all. Everything was white - white walls, white flooring, white bed sheets. And the smell: it was harsh and chemical, and the room had no hint of dust or humidity.
He noticed an aching sensation in his abdomen. Peering under his bedsheet, he saw a white gauze carefully placed over his wounds. It started at his lower rib cage and stretched all the way down to his hips.
A man entered the room. He donned a clipboard and was dressed from head to toe in green, sterile plastic. There was something strangely mechanical about him, as if he had acted out this very situation countless times before.
"Neil," he sighed. "I'm afraid to say there were some complications with your surgery."
"Surgery?" Neil stammered, his words barely comprehensible. "I don't understand. I never booked any-" He stopped talking, feeling every word choke him as his throat began to clench shut with fear.
"Halfway through the procedure, you began to bleed out, so we had to cancel the keyhole surgery and go invasive. I'm very sorry Neil."
The man began exiting the room, but halfway to the door he stopped and turned to face Neil with a look of sympathy plastered onto his usually emotionless face.
"Due to the complications, we'll have to perform a follow-up surgery in three weeks time. I'm just about to call our resident anesthetist. Many of our permanent staff, including her, been off sick this week, so we've been having to make do with agency staff - newly qualified, but fantastic nonetheless. I'm told you slept right through this surgery. Thank God for modern anesthetic!"
Written by Charis Johnson
Content is available under CC BY-SA