No sooner had I taken a brief respite from my relentless inquiry, returning to my above-ground pad in search of nutrition and protection, when I noticed the paper tacked to the outside of my front door. Was it precognition that froze my heart with apprehension? Or am I just becoming a trained animal, ready to halt, tremble and slather at the slightest sign of unfamiliar approach? I thought I was at least somewhat resilient; if you have, in following my story, deemed me worthy of any appreciation in terms of strength of will, mind or character, I regret that I must disabuse you of such a notion. Apparently I more closely resemble a slug , or perhaps a slime mold - which, ironically, lined the walls of my cell in the oh so recent past.
"Suffer and Die!" read the bold print across the top of the legal-sized paper. Well, actually it simply addressed me by name, and continued to inform me that I was no longer required to appear in court to defend myself against my corporeal entity's charges. To the contrary, I was to be invited to a holiday party on its behalf! "Let bygones be bygones!", exclaimed the note, as it subtly emitted odorless viral material into my respiratory system, carried by the heavy breathing which my confusion and fear had induced. Clever, no? Soon I was dead.
Is this why the floor of my room is covered in blood? I was not aware blood was so sticky - I find it difficult to walk, to lift my feet. Long strands of maroon viscosity festoon the gap between my foot and the floor - and the sound: not a screech, but a far-off awful moan of some kind. Oh wait - that is me. I am afraid. As I might be. I cannot control my locomotion, feeling as if I was drunk from some illegally stimulant-saturated beverage, and my gyroscope teeters alarmingly off to the side, as if I were perambulating gravity-free on the outside of a space station. I tumble to the ground, as if in slow motion. The sticky blood is apparently quite deep, because I feel it course down my throat, choking me in an orgy of plenitude, as if a giant wave, virile with moon gravitation, had sucked me under and stolen my footing. I am gone, again.
Rainbows scrape my face. I hear a clatter of birds' wings, and my ears hurt from the percussion. An invisible doctor and his elongated associates tower above me, tools gleaming cold silver in their hands, I sense blades everywhere. My arms are sliced along the vertical meridians, deep red emerging like a generous tide, rising from the open flesh, then running in swift and sickening rivulets down, down... Unconsciousness, greeting me, would be welcome; but it is the doctor I must face. God spare me! Oh, that's right, I offended the Supreme One last time by talking cheek. Oh well, too bad for me. The doctor has white teeth - impossibly bright. What is that, glinting light into my eyes from behind his head? Sleep? Fainting? No such luck. You shall be awake.