The Experiment*

Each needle they insert into my arm reminds me of a voodoo doll - a little poke here and a little poke there and "Presto!," another quick fulfillment of proverbial justice, initiated be some necromancer from afar. The nurses elicit some strange brew from my arm. It is thick and crimson, almost velvety, as it coats the insides of their vials. How I ever managed to live and to experience the sensations of feeling while that syrupy stuff coarsed through my ever-constricting vessels stupefies me. It is, however, amazing and awe-inspiring that I am still writing. The serum inspires it.

The serum inside my vessels thickens every day, and my senses are inundated by excess. My senses are flooded with extra information that deceives even the most clever of my abilities. My sense of balance yearns for a palliative stability, forgotten as soon as the flood decimated its ability to regulate my step. Luckily, I can see without experiencing double vision. Though my vision, too, has been compromised as a result of my inability to neutralize the sensation of gravity.

It is most confusing to understand exactly how my body created the serum in the first place. How cells emerged from a sort of placental, ore-like strip within my bones. They differentiated, supplied, oxidized, and infected. They continue to do so. I can't fight them like I can fight you, but I can manage their onslaught. The mother ship sends wave after wave of warriors, who fight with chivalry and loyalty as young cells, and then defect to the dark side just before they perish. My hope is that, like the convert on his deathbed, I can alter the course of fate for these cells, and give them a proper eternal resting place.

I can propel the future, so long as I am endowed with loyal legions of healthy cells. I can fight for what ails me, but I cannot defeat or win anything. It is not a decision, it is a way.

-W.P.

*A fictional narrative.