Jan 4
Telepathic murder/antimatter surgery

I wake up to utter chaos. Screams interrupt the strange feeling of my body being hugged from the inside, whilst my brain begins to fill with thoughts to overflowing. The screams are of complete terror, without gender or species, only the very essence of calling out to save one’s life. I also hear the sound of scuffling bodies emanating from the same spot as the screams next to me. 

Foreign intruders in the form of thoughts enter my brain in a stream of nonsense. They are so definitively not mine that I feel like a visitor in my own brain.

“[Laughing], lunch indeed!”

“Won’t stop struggling.”


“Trust, Overseer. How?”

“Bleeding throughout.”

“Elite method, Surgeon!”

“Care? These are fodder!”

Then I open my eyes. That, too, is chaotic. I’m lashed to an operat-ing table of some sort, my chest splayed open and breathing while a team of lizards poke and prod the vulnerable organs. To my right General Jess is similarly lashed to an operating table, but he’s resisting. It is all red as if a water balloon full of blood exploded on to the operators and the ground, pooling around his exposed innards.

He continues to scream and thrash even as the aliens have him pinned to the table. A giant is standing next to the table and repeating a statement to try and calm the soldier. 

“Ju mus’ s’ay ca’m, sir. Dis procedure is so ju can da’k wid delepady,” she encourages to no avail.

He looks over at me and with complete hopelessness in his eyes, begs me to help.

“Gravitons not working, Jess! Please!” he screams.

Something does feel wrong. I feel sad, but I don’t want to feel sad. This must be a feeling to just help me know when I am not com-pletely absolved of emotion. I must free myself of this emotion; it does not help me in my cause and so I won’t give in to this desire to help. I turn away from him in his plea. Why is all this chaos some-how pleasant? Why is it now that I feel the most at peace? As if the chaos feeds me life?

Eventually his screams turn into shrieks as he drifts from cons-ciousness. Then his voice ends in almost a high-pitched hum. Now it is calm and peaceful for him, but I hope I don’t follow him to that empty abyss and simple bliss; endless torment awaits me in the silence and the light.

I watch as the lizards insert an organ towards my right collarbone. It is a small sac, but it looks as if it will not fit. Everything is rather compact in that part of the body, I know. One connects the organ to the arteries. Another is pumping some material, I assume blood, into the organ. Then what is the material they are lacing? And then what is the other one pumping in now, if the first was blood?

The voices begin to make sense, but they continue to enter and leave at breakneck speed. 


“It will take?”

“Lunch now?”

“Tissue is toxic.”

“I know cause I eat nothing else.”

“Little folk!”

“Make for great assassins.”

I then black out. I dream about my heart exposed, alone, sitting in the cold air. It beats slowly, deliberately as if it knows it has a limited amount of beats before it gets accidentally nicked. But it knows no feelings, only efficiency. It intends to pump the blood for as long as there is blood to pump, even if there are no organs to pump to. It asks for no reward, getting pleasure from the act itself. 

When I come to my chest is stitched back up and a lizard stands guard over me. This time the thoughts are much more precise and intelligible. 

“Use of telepathy should not harm the physical tenderness of the organ,” they say.

I attribute the voice in my brain to the towering reptile watching over me, but I have no idea where it is coming from, or whether it is multiple voices. 

“Nod your head if you can hear,” it asks.

I nod my head slightly. Then the image of a lizard, emphasized by the fireorange scales on his bare shoulders and chest, enters my brain, distinct from the figure actually in my presence. 

“Nod if you can see,” it insists.

I nod again. A smell, the metallic smell of red meat and green vege-tables, enters my head with such force as to make me gag. And then it smells good all of a sudden.

“Nod if you can smell,” it asks again.

I nod again. A feeling of touching the raw scales of a reptile’s skin enters. Somehow it feels natural, as if I’ve touched this patch of skin many times. 

“Nod if you can feel.”

I nod a last time and then the mental signal fades. My guard then too leaves. The silence that ensues is so infinitely disturbing that I begin to flirt with speaking telepathy myself, but without a co-mmunicant I can never be sure anything is being sent. I cry with no way to wipe the tears off my face. The room is so clean, any evi-dence of General Jess’s murder wiped clean off.