Superposition: #2

 

That’s not to say you weren’t still on the verge of hyperventilation, but logically you’ve acknowledged that humoring a panic attack isn’t going to help. It’s taken such a colossal effort to calm yourself to this point that you haven’t moved an inch since initially attempting to grab at your throat. You can’t feel your fingers or toes, which is probably a result of all the blood racing to your heart. You’ve been lying here, prone, hoping that feeling would return.

 

You still can’t make out any real details about your environment save for the intense beams of sunshine illuminating the room.The memory of where you were before this feels distant, but it’s still there. You were in that doctor’s office. It was a trial that you’d signed up to partake in to earn some quick cash. You can’t remember the doctor’s name… but you’re absolutely sure that it was -night- when he pushed that button… right? It had to have been! It was dark out when you walked into that building! C’mon just try and remembe–

 

Agh!

 

Another pang races down your nerves from the crippling migraine occupying the back of your head. Retaining any train of thought alongside the pain was a challenge. Though, considering how distant your recollection the doctor’s office feels, investigating any further changes to your memory seems like a valid course of action. You close your eyes and do your best to recall everything you can about your life. Just to make sure everything is still there, you know?

 

Your apartment? You kept it clean, but it was in a bad part of town. You’re pretty sure your upstairs neighbors had a meth lab. Your work? You didn’t work. Your parents? Ugh, your parents.

 

Your dad was a military guy. Even if he wasn’t actually in the military, that would still be the only word to really describe him. An overtly strict man with expectations as high as the sun. Punctual, serious, and absolutely lacking any sense of humor. The only thing as high as his expectations was you in a hot-boxed car throughout highschool. He’d pushed you so hard during those years. Always talked about how you’d follow in his steps and graduate as an officer from Westpoint. You’re sure he knew there was zero chance of that happening, but it was like he was in denial. The military would’ve been a miserable experience. Unlike your father, you were not the type to follow orders. There truly was nothing about your personalities that contrasted well with one another. You can only imagine his reaction to finding out his liberal arts, pussy of a son had gotten himself kidnapped. Icing on the cake there. You’d never hear the end of it.

 

 

Your mom wasn’t much better. A Jesus freak through and through. Always dragged you to church despite your endless protests. You’re pretty sure she wrote you out of her will when she found a shooter of tequila in your backpack when you were 17. Nothing would surprise you if she gave everything to the church after she passed. She was that kind of lady.

 

Well… it seems like everything is still up there.

 

With a big, deep inhale and an equally dramatic exhale, you decide on your next move: Liberating your eyes from whatever’s keeping you blinded. Or at least trying to. Your body was sore, your head was in enormous pain, and your mind had been clouded with terror. Lying limp on the floor was just about all you could manage until now. You extend your arm to reach toward your face, but promptly freeze upon realizing your arm isn’t moving the way it should. An attempt to move your other arm only offers the same result. You experiment with your legs, but even their movements seem alien.

 

An innate terror tells you something is very, very wrong… and you don’t know if you have the capacity to confront it.

 

Despite the voice in your head that pleads for you to close your eyes and just wait to wake from what might quickly become the worst nightmare you've ever had, you look down. Yeah… Should've kept your eyes closed.

 

Before you rests the deathly pale blur of a digitless stump. White as snow. A color you’d only seen rivaled by the paleness of corpses. Desperate attempts to move your fingers reward you with nothing. No response. You suppose that tends to happen when you don’t have fingers. Even now, through the fog that obscures your vision, you can confirm that this stump is part of your body. It moves in place of your arm, and there are definitely no fingers to be found.

 

Absolutely void of any capability to interpret what you’re witnessing, there’s only one reaction your crippled body can muster.

 

You scream. You scream as loud as your aching diaphragm will allow. There must also be something stuck in your throat because, where there should be a gravely wail, all that comes out is a deafening shriek. The byproduct of whatever’s constricting your wind-pipe, probably. Turning your death-howl into a pathetic whistle.

 

A frantic writhing accompanies your cries for help. Every muscle you move bends and contorts in ways that convince you this must be some sort of hellish punishment. Perhaps you’d died and this was, indeed, hell. Not only that, but as you’d extended your appendages, they were met with firm clashes against what sounded like the confines of an enclosure. Images of stereotypical nightmares with skeletons hanging lifeless in cages while an eternal fire burned behind them start to consume your mind. Your legs and arms were gone and you were some freak-show exhibit to be gawked at.

 

Your state of delirium continues uninterrupted for an amount of time you have no way of measuring. It doesn’t feel long, though, before you hear the rattling of a metal latch that precedes the opening of what you assume to be your cell’s door. The silhouette of massive arms grow in your cloudy vision.You do what you can to evade their advance, but it’s ultimately in vain.

 

“Shh, shh. You’re just fine, dear.”

 

A firm grip latches your chin, holding your head forebodingly still. No amount of your own strength is enough to overcome it. Never in your life had you encountered a situation where you lacked the muscle-power to fight back. You still squirm where you’re able, but your screams are quickly hushed but the shock being held still.

 

“Please don’t kill me! Please!” you squeak pathetically through your raspy, damaged vocals.

 

You receive no response from the giant. Instead, a large thumb wastes no time assaulting your eyes. Well, maybe ‘assault’ isn’t the right term. It rubs around your eyelids in thorough circles, doing what you’d meant to before discovering your crippled arms.

 

They soon retract, along with the hand that acted as your head’s restraint. The moment you’re released, you scrape your appendages desperately along the floor to scoot away from the monster, stopping only once you collide with the back of your cell.

 

You blink your eyes rapidly again, surprised to find that this time your vision is entirely clear. Well, clear aside from the white blob that still resides in the center of your field of view.

 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” a deep voice through your cage. “There’s often a lot of mucus that comes from your sinuses when you first wake up. You’re not blind, I promise.”

 

The voice lures your attention, and you redirect your eyes to the giant’s. There, before you, kneels an unnaturally tall man, peering down at you with a smile that, in any other circumstance, you might consider comforting.

 

That’s when you realize there’s a familiarity about him. His voice… his face… In paralyzed fear, your mind is hard at work trying to hurriedly connect the dots.

 

It’s… It’s him. The doctor. Or at least, that’s where all the evidence points. His lisp, his mannerisms, his smile. What baffles you, though, is that the man in front of you is decades younger than one you initially met.

 

That also means he must’ve been the one who brought you here. The needles, the cables, the device with the green button. Your struggle to recall that night only worsens the pain of your migraine, but one conclusion is obvious. It was all him.

 

Realizing this is most definitely the person responsible, fear quickly turns to anger. Air wells up in your lungs, your eyes twitch with rage, and you prepare to unleash upon this man fury unlike anything he’s ever witnessed.

 

“WHO--!”

 

Only for you to interrupt yourself, of course. You cough wildly in an effort to rid your throat of whatever is raising the pitch of your voice. The squeak that you produce completely detracts from any ounce of intimidation you meant to convey.

 

“There’s nothing stuck in there either,” he gestures to your neck. “Just a little hoarse. I’ll bring you some water in a bit.”

 

Your anger is only amplified by his apparent indifference at your suffering. What sort of freak smiles at the sight of something so disgusting!? For a moment you consider your appearance from his perspective and bile rises in your throat.

 

“I- .. How!? What did you do to me!” you shriek, doing your best to ignore the frequencies produced by your vocal chords.

 

The man sighs, his gentle grin faltering a bit.

 

“This is always the hardest part... I would love to tell you everything, truly, but there’s a lot you need to understand before we have that conversation.”

 

You’re furiously shaking now.

 

“How do I know any of this is even real!? I fall asleep one moment and the next, I’m here!?”

 

He squints his eyes as you yell, the same way one might wince upon hearing a child scream in a quiet restaurant.

 

“That tone will do you no favors,” he asserts.

 

You mean to retaliate, but before you have the opportunity, the cage’s door shuts and he raises himself back to his feet. That’s when you notice your peripherals…

 

He’s not an unnaturally large man, if the room behind him is of any indication. You’re just a tiny lump of human meat. You use this small bout of clarity to absorb as much information as you can regarding your new surroundings. It's not… particularly comforting. He seems to be housing you in some plastic dog crate in the middle of what looks to be a guest bedroom. A simple room with its only decorative feature being a bland painting on the wall adjacent to a sheetless bed.

 

Part of you wants to laugh at just how fucked up this is. There’s no way any of this is real. This is the kind of thing you’d see in a shitty netflix show.

 

As he walks away from your cage, you spot a mirror on the far wall behind where he’d been kneeling. You’re a bit too far away to observe anything in detail, but what you can see stuns you. For a small moment, your breathing ceases entirely.

 

“I’ll also bring something for that headache,” he’s standing in the doorway about to leave when he notices your gaze directed toward the mirror. He smiles, seemingly satisfied, before gently closing the door behind him as he steps out.

 

The mirror… it’s…

 

You don’t know how to describe it. You can see the kennel, but within it isn’t a human. It’s– well you’re not entirely sure what it is.

 

The creature staring back at you wears fur as white as the stump that replaced your arm. A messy, light-blue mane occupies the top of its head. The expression on its face is blank, but the quivering nose tells you the poor thing is terrified.

 

You try to move, praying that the creature in the mirror doesn’t mimic you. You’re hardly surprised when it does, though. It would make sense of what became of your arms… but how? How is this possible?

 

There’s a fleeting moment of relief knowing that you weren’t some ‘Monty Python’-esque recreation of a limbless amputee, but no sooner is the feeling replaced with disgust. The creature’s muzzle quivers more frantically as tears well in your eyes. Someone sent you here, made you tiny, made it so you couldn’t fight back, and you’re just supposed to… understand it? Cope with it? How does anyone keep going after something like this?

 

Tears begin to fall and you ultimately allow your emotions the courtesy of inconsolable sobs. The creature in the mirror does the same.

 

You can’t even recall the last time you cried. It’s been long enough to have forgotten what it feels like. Mentally, your reflex is to try and repress it, but the emotions are just far too intense… You just— you don’t know how to handle this! Any of it!

 

You haven’t even been awake for half an hour and already you’re exhausted beyond belief. There’s no energy left to spare for another bout of panic. All you feel now is dread. Dread and hopelessness. If your brain ever does decide to acknowledge that animal in the mirror as you, then you might as well consider yourself dead. It won’t even be you anymore. You curl yourself up into a little ball, which seems to bring you a little comfort as you cry. It feels safe. You’re safe in your ball and no one can hurt you here. The reaction comes to you almost instinctively. Unknown muscle memory coercing your new body to satisfy what it thinks it needs.

 

 

Without even thinking, you flick what seems to be a tail around your curled form. The strands of delicate hair that end up hiding your face are the same blue as the mane you’d seen earlier. Hiding beneath your body’s makeshift blanket rewards you with an even stronger, innate sense of security.

 

The movement of the tail muscle, however, has directed your attention to your lower body, where you slowly begin to notice a distinct vacancy occupying a very particular spot.

 

Oh. Oh no…