reckonedabandon.

I sit in the middle of a dark room. The room’s floor is made of porcelain tiles, slightly yellowed, like unbrushed teeth. The walls are steel. There are no windows but there are two dim, flickering lanterns, opposite one another. One is on the wall to my left, and the other is on the wall to my right. There is a door in front of me, although the lanterns do not provide enough clarity to discern much about it. The ceiling is made of a non-descript material and is generally uninteresting. In the middle of the room there is a chair, where I am sitting, if you would remember. It is an electric chair. It is made of wood like an old rocking-horse. It has leather straps and each of my limbs are bound by them. There is a small switch on the right arm of the chair, similar in appearance to one you might turn the lights on and off with. But the lights are on and I have not touched the switch. I trace my index finger around it, delicately. Sensually. I breathe in and place the tip over the raised end of the switch. Then, I push it. My body starts to spasm, shake, like there’s something inside me trying to break loose. Because there is, there is something inside me and it hurts. There’s a colony of furious fire-ants scurrying up and down my veins, biting me. I’m being eaten from the inside and I’m starting to cry now. The chair does not have a gag though I do not scream because I am not a screamer. But my head is shrieking, the sound of nails on chalkboard and squeaky styrofoam is inside my skull and it’s coming out my ears now because I’ve started to bleed. My brain is melting out my ears and my nose and my eyes and its souping up with my tears and blood and snot and dribbling into my mouth and it’s a shit fucking soup. I flip the switch again with quaking hands and exhale. I am beginning to have doubts. My hands still bound, I try to clean my face by shaking my head like a damn dog but it’s all so sticky. In a moment of weakness I do think how nice it would be to leave. I swallow phlegm and discard the thought and with a finger still shaking, I turn the switch. It’s worse this time because I am weaker now. There are a hundred thousand invisible claws digging into each square inch of my flesh, pulling it,  contorting it, shredding it. I’ve got television static and radio chatter filling up my body like water in a glass and water is highly conductive to electricity. My eyes are starting to burn and I’m developing dark spots over my vision, like words on a page seared out by a cigarette butt. I can no longer see very much of the generally uninteresting ceiling. I feel something inside me pop and I hope it wasn’t anything important. Something’s building now and its rising and rising and rising and I vomit and it dribbles down my face to go say hello to all my other liquids and I don’t think I can take it much more so I attempt to flip the switch again but by this point I’ve next to no control over my body and it hurts. I try to break free of the straps but they’re too strong or maybe they aren’t and I’m just too weak. I limply brush flailing fingers over the switch but it’s not working and suddenly, underneath a swamp of phlegm and blood and vomit, a moan escapes me. The knuckle of my middle finger finally collides with the switch with enough force to turn it. I gasp for air and immediately flick the switch again. Once more, I am God, bright blue rippling up and down me. Twitching and throbbing because this material form cannot contain me. Something’s coming out of me now and I can’t see at all anymore and I can’t think anymore and I’m not crying anymore. The world goes white and I go limp.