Upon This Dawning

The room is cold; damp; musty. On the wall is one framed picture of a sailboat at a hazardous sea. I feel as if it portrays my current situation pretty accurately. I am strapped to a dilapidated dentist chair, even my neck restricted. I hum to try and foster up some comfort, maybe, just possibly, some courage to face whatever demon is about to come through the door across from me.

I expect a monster of grotesque proportions. Perhaps a misshapen Cyclops or Minotaur type thing with sharp talons to tear into me and consume my frightened body, just as that sailboat shall be consumed by the sea. Instead, the door does not creak open; it simply swings with the grace of a well-oiled hinge.

The man that walks through is clean cut. He stands at an unimpressive height of 5'8", has a nice crew cut that complements his khakis and polo. He wears the smile of a million civilized folk. His eyes have no whites behind his bifocals that magnify them to a disturbing degree. I do not smile back; I do not find his joke funny when he offers to shake my hand. He shrugs as if I'm a kid misbehaving and oh, kids will be kids. I wait and stare at him with what I hope is disinterest that doesn't show my fear.

"This is gonna hurt, Missy." He has a funny accent that sounds like Hugh Grant trying to be Southern.

"What will?" It's a stupid question, I'm aware; it's purely a habit. I really do not want to know. Just let me be a bird so I can fly, fly, fly away from this place. Not that I could get there. I cannot remember which way is home, and surely I'd end up winding down the red brick road, while my yellow one lies forgotten.

He does not even open his mouth to answer. He just keeps on smiling that friendly, void smile.

He pulls out what I call the Potato Peeler 2000. I honor it with this namesake because it resembles the household object, to a colossal degree. Its concave blades are razor thin, with the length of my head. The hilt has a grip, which has odd symbols carved into it, such as what looks like three crosses burning.

He unstraps one arm. I think he is going to cut me with the double blade. He does not, and chooses to run his tongue along my skin. I try to break free as goosebumps rise on my arm, yet I am somehow surprised by the strength of the thing with the physique of an average man. He holds on tight and even nips the skin a bit with his teeth. My gag reflex is triggered and I fight to keep the bile in my throat.

He leaves the same disgusting trail of saliva on my opposing arm, along with both of my legs. My chest heaves as I give up my strife and vomit. Fortunately, I am filled with merely water, and only a small trail of shameful liquid streams from the orifice of my mouth.

Finally the Potato Peeler 2000 comes into play. And boy, does it slice that potato skin. Goodbye strips of nude. Pain comes quickly. So does blackness.

I awaken an egg, being dropped into a frying pan. Sizzle, red hot sizzle, goes my body. I have never experienced this kind of pain in my comprehensible life. There seems to be no solution in my mind to end the feeling my body is trying to endure. What happened?

Then recollection rings a bell in my mind. The Potato Peeler 2000; that's right. I look down at where my skin used to be, everything raw and exposed, like the delicacy of a baby bird as it falls from its nest and splats on the concrete. It's gone; and I'm still living. The anomaly of the century, I could bet you.

The man returns and stares at me with the same congenial grin.

"Ah, my prodigy. Are you prepared to flourish?"

To be continued.