Bent (I)
I’m so scared that I’ll never get put back together
“Is anyone out there? Hey… Yo… Come on, is anyone the fuck out there?” I am flat on my back, buck naked, my arms at my side in an oddly familiar rectangular container. My feet touch the bottom. My elbows, when I push them out, nudge a boundary on either side. When I exhale in this absolute darkness, my icy breath comes back into my face, leaving no need to lift my arms to know the ceiling is not more than a few inches above me. I confirm it anyway, rapping my knuckles on the ceiling, seven or eight inches above my hips.
Only now, as panic starts to set in, do I remember that my words, oddly, had no sound to them. They were hardly more than thoughts, as though trapped in my throat. I try again: “Hey! Hey! Help me! For Chrissake, get me the hell out of here!” Am I only thinking it? Are my lips just miming the words? How can I feel the air forced through my throat, yet hear no sound? My frigid breath is blasting its puffs now back against my face and my attention is brought to my chest which is rising and falling more raggedly now.
My chest! My chest! Shit! With sudden nausea, I slide my right hand up my stomach to my chest and feel there the six-inch incision and explore the hole beneath the flap that, like chilled hamburger, two fingers of my hand can slip into — and do. And with it come…
