Large, like a gymnasium, a stadium, an airplane hanger. A chill and sterile smell. It feels like I must be on drugs, but I don't do drugs. Terror fills my veins and my body feels like a white-knuckled fist. Looking down, I see the woman laying on the table, which spreads out at the bottom as if the table is an inverted Y. Her naked legs follow the yawning base and at the opposite end her head is hung back, hair askew, her face twisted into a look of total confusion and utter horror. Feeling her feelings kills me. One of them stands behind her head, looking down at her with it's slanted, black, liquid eyes, trying to lock in eye contact. Another stands to the side of her, and another is crouched down, working on her at crotch level. Rage and fear fill me. Never have I felt such an all-consuming, absolute emotion as now, I feel certain.
However indistinct from rape, it strikes me that none of what it going on down below me is sexual, which somehow only makes it all the more bizarre, all the more horrible. On their end, no emotion is invested at all, or, if it is, it is so minimal that it is undetectable. Still, there is no empathy from them.
They are taking something out of her. It is moving.
I look up, look away. Beside me on the balcony is what appears to be a man, but there is something wrong with him; for one thing, his eyes are more than a little too large. And his vibe, it is all wrong. Without opening his mouth or uttering a sound, he tells me that I am making all this up. He smiles, I guess, but it is more of a sadistic sneer than a smile, and it is done more with his eyes than his mouth. None of this is real, he tells me in just the same way, and it seems he is enjoying this game. For that is precisely what this seems to be to him. A game. A wicked fucking game.
I hate him. I absolutely hate the bastard. And despite the fact that I have the strong feeling I know him, for the life of me I cannot remember the circumstances.
Somewhere around me is someone else, or something else, and it looks like a hug insect, like an enormous grasshopper or praying mantis. On two legs and towering over me. Suddenly it is leaning down, I'm looking into it's face, and its real close up, and what it's telling me through it's eyes, in loud and penetrating cerebral whispers, is that I'm one of them. It is the most horrifying concept ever offered my mind. What is worse is that I don't get the sense of wicked teasing I got from the man with the large eyes; I don't get the sense of playful viciousness. Just a sense of authority, of a matter-of-factness, of a seriousness, an insistence.
The thought twists my stomach in knots. It makes my head spin with a horrible hate and agony and makes me weak in the knees.
I look back over the balcony, down at the woman, at the baby they're stealing out of her. I elect to believe the strange man with the large eyes. I'm making all this up. I have to be making all of this up. This is fucking crazy. I have to be making all this up. And outside of the memory, in the hypnotist's chair, I hang onto that belief in what the man with the big eyes said. This is not a memory. This is a fantasy. And still, it makes me sick.
However indistinct from rape, it strikes me that none of what it going on down below me is sexual, which somehow only makes it all the more bizarre, all the more horrible. On their end, no emotion is invested at all, or, if it is, it is so minimal that it is undetectable. Still, there is no empathy from them.
They are taking something out of her. It is moving.
I look up, look away. Beside me on the balcony is what appears to be a man, but there is something wrong with him; for one thing, his eyes are more than a little too large. And his vibe, it is all wrong. Without opening his mouth or uttering a sound, he tells me that I am making all this up. He smiles, I guess, but it is more of a sadistic sneer than a smile, and it is done more with his eyes than his mouth. None of this is real, he tells me in just the same way, and it seems he is enjoying this game. For that is precisely what this seems to be to him. A game. A wicked fucking game.
I hate him. I absolutely hate the bastard. And despite the fact that I have the strong feeling I know him, for the life of me I cannot remember the circumstances.
Somewhere around me is someone else, or something else, and it looks like a hug insect, like an enormous grasshopper or praying mantis. On two legs and towering over me. Suddenly it is leaning down, I'm looking into it's face, and its real close up, and what it's telling me through it's eyes, in loud and penetrating cerebral whispers, is that I'm one of them. It is the most horrifying concept ever offered my mind. What is worse is that I don't get the sense of wicked teasing I got from the man with the large eyes; I don't get the sense of playful viciousness. Just a sense of authority, of a matter-of-factness, of a seriousness, an insistence.
The thought twists my stomach in knots. It makes my head spin with a horrible hate and agony and makes me weak in the knees.
I look back over the balcony, down at the woman, at the baby they're stealing out of her. I elect to believe the strange man with the large eyes. I'm making all this up. I have to be making all of this up. This is fucking crazy. I have to be making all this up. And outside of the memory, in the hypnotist's chair, I hang onto that belief in what the man with the big eyes said. This is not a memory. This is a fantasy. And still, it makes me sick.
