After the cure, the obliteration. The body I’ve already exposed, the oblique columns of muscle and bone, to the odd flirtation with technology. Centuries, even decades ago, they dreamed of this. Now I’m just testing the feeling, drowning in colour as the night doctor operates. Steady hands, penicillin buzz, the names of the dead erupting from my mouth like a safety switch, the effects of sensory dilation as the silver cage of the time bomb was manipulated and armed under my skin.
From now on, I will bruise easily.
Where am I now? Recovering. The foreign molecules now stranded in my body have been part of a different universe and the penetrating fatigue of interstellar travel is taking its toll. My eyes have gone dark, languid and unstirred, but I can feel recovery creeping up. It is coming closer, like a long earred animal in the dark.
