2011年11月14日 IIF?: Before Blue-Men 1

Is-it-fiction?

Prologue:

The clock was telling me again, with single words and lines. The weather said there was a 60 percent chance I would not have to do it on my own. But the clock kept at it, with every tick and tock, I heard it.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

No longer were there any words or fashion in which I could describe to you what the clock was saying to me. I almost laughed when I wondered what a digital clock would say. It wouldn't say anything, would it? Is it the mechanical or the digital that becomes more or less human? My speculation only helped me avoid the degree of pain I felt. A degree that only is measurable by the tools that inflicted such agony. My speculation was my tool that did both simultaneously. 

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

As if the words wouldn't end. Even without the clock, Time would always be there saying it to me unconsciously. Any attempt to reflect on anything would acknowledge its existence and participation. Time IS part of everything I knew. And everything that Time was telling me was summed up into one word without definitive reason: CRY.

It never ended, at least not in my soul. I could see others moving around, lucid fleshy-looking creatures. It reminded me of the chalk-like taste after taking certain medicines.

They're everywhere, never really here or there specifically. As if their unconscious semi-dead, if not asleep, state prevented them from lingering in a single moment and space for a definitive or measurable time. More fleshy-looking people could seen through the windows. I know there is real blood, but all I can see is just simple flashes of people. Their own clocks with Time on their shoulders, weighing some down, hiding it from some of them, only confused me or them further.

CRY.

CRY.

I couldn't understand the purpose of it, nor did I want to. The structure of it all was the same familiar dehumanization of the clock Time gave me.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

And in those 15 seconds, I lost consciousness.

The burden of breathing appeared to bring me out of my sleep, or whatever I could call such an unconscious state. I couldn't tell if I was unconscious, sleeping, or if I was dead. I didn't feel anything at first. Then a rush jolted my heavy body. I felt like I was moving for the first time. Even though the movements themselves were familiar I couldn't recall the last time I felt such weight. Everything felt like it was the first of the last time, and I was unable to identify my surroundings due to the disorientation caused from waking.

Burning came fast, up and under my sternum. I wanted to rip all of it out. Flesh and bone, then the organs. I could imagine what they would look like as I tore them from my chest and threw them at the floor and wall.

And the massive amounts of blood I would be choking on in the process.
I could see it.
I have seen it.

Blue-Men taught us well. And for some reason I thought of the first time they injected me. Was this how it felt? I chose not to make an effort at remembering.