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Gillian

G entle but firm hands press down on my shoulders, guiding me into the padded chair, which tilts back as soon as I sit. No pause. No breath. Just a smooth, practiced recline, as if it’s routine.

“You’ll feel some pressure,” says a voice behind me—too casual, too rehearsed.

I try to turn, to ask something—anything—but the restraints snap into place before I can finish inhaling.

Cold metal clamps around my wrists. Ankles. Across my chest.

I jerk instinctively. The restraints hold firm.

The panic comes fast—bright, immediate, a jagged sting in my throat like I’ve swallowed glass.

“Wait—I don’t?—”

But the nurse is already instilling drops into my eyes. Precise. Clinical. Indifferent.

My vision clouds, blurs. Colors bleed like they’ve been left out in the rain. Shapes dissolve. Edges go syrup-thick.

I blink. The room blurs in response.

“You won’t remember this part,” she says softly. Almost tender. Like it’s a mercy.

Like forgetting makes it okay.

A machine spins to life overhead—too smooth, too familiar. A low, mechanical whir that doesn’t match the terror punching holes in my chest.

The scalpel hovers, and my bladder contracts before I even realize I’m about to piss myself.

My fingers go numb on the armrests. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s breathing calmly. It takes me a second to realize it’s my breath—so calm it sounds like a lie.

I try to move, speak, scream.

The restraints don’t budge.

The chair doesn’t care.

Then—

Click.

Cold metal presses sharply against my eyelid, holding it open. I try to jerk away, adrenaline flooding my veins, but my body won’t respond. “No,” I rasp, breath shredded and small. “Please?—”

But it’s already happening.

The scalpel slices into my cornea.

Not pressure. Not numbness.

Pain.

White-hot. Obscene. Searing so deep it doesn’t feel like part of my body anymore.

They said I wouldn’t feel it.

They lied.

I feel everything.

Tears leak down my cheeks—useless, involuntary. Saline and blood mixing at the edges of my face while strangers chat just out of view. Calm. Detached. Like they’re not operating on a person. Just fine-tuning a machine.

The sound intensifies.

Flesh separates.

A wet, peeling sound.

I gag—can’t stop it—choking on air that won’t stay in my lungs. My throat locks up.

I try to scream.

No sound comes out.

Then—nothing. Darkness.