Monday, Jun. 20, 2005 - 23:58

I found myself standing in the operating room of a hospital. The room was a hive of activity; a number of people – doctors, nurses - in surgical attire were moving about, looking busy, their faces hidden behind white surgical masks.

I stepped closer to the surgical bench, upon which a motionless figure lay. I was taken aback by what I found. The bench was ‘double’ in size, as it had to accommodate an unusual patient; the unconscious figure on the bed was myself, but I had been sliced neatly in to two portions. I hadn’t been cut down the middle, i.e., a left-side and a right-side, oh no; instead I’d been sliced down the middle in the sense that I had a ‘front’ and ‘back’.

I found myself looking down at my ‘front’ half, eyes closed, looking for all intents and purposes as if I was sound asleep. Beside my front ‘half’ was my back 'half', the fleshy interior turned upwards and exposed in gruesome detail.

The leading surgeon pushed past me where I stood transfixed with equal parts horror and fascination, until he was beside the bench. Then he proceeded to produce dozens of long, bright, shiny nails. He took the edge of my skin, from my front half, and stretched them somehow so that they wrapped around the underside … and then he proceeded to nail the skin into place with deep, pounding and methodical blows, the echoes of which reverberated around the room.

“No!” I screamed at him, feeling the nails drive into my body as I stood there. But neither the surgeon nor any of the nursing staff seemed to be able to see or hear me.

The surgeon continued with his grim and ghoulish task and then the front half of me, on the bench, stirred – eyes snapped open and the figure let out a long, ear piercing shriek of excruciating agony, while beside that ‘me’, the ‘back’ half of me laying on the other part of the bench commenced twitching and shivering in time with the surgeon’s hammer blows…

The surgeon paused in the procedure and took down the blood spattered surgical mask, revealing his face: Simon. He was frowning down at the ‘front’ part of me on the bench.

“I’m almost done, Jay... it’ll be over soon,” he said softly.

But the ‘me’ standing by the bench, amongst the nursing staff, spoke up: “Can’t you see what he’s doing…?! He’s killing me! Help me, please! Stop him… please stop him!”

Simon resumed his hammering… at which point, I woke up: screaming.

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