“Just gimme the thing already.”
“You have to sign this agreement in case something unexpected happens to y—”
“Yeah, yeah—sign this, sign that—you labcoat-wearing people are boring the hell out of me.”
Three paper to signs, no biggie—I don’t even read what’s inside.
“Thank you. Please wait here for a moment while we prepare the equipment. In the meantime, please take off your shirt.”
“Whaddya mean equipment? It’s only a damn syringe.”
“The procedure involves a syringe, but just to make sure everything is safe, we have to tie you on a bed.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“We have no choice; this is for your safety.”
Everyone thinks I’m insane. Am I insane? More than they think; I’m a fucking madman.
Years ago, I used to discuss this with other people, but I ain’t gonna do that anymore. They all said, “This is so wrong; you better not do that; don’t be ridiculous; injecting it will cause this and that.” Damn fools. They didn’t even understand anything, yet they kept on babbling bullshit. At this point, I’m not convincing anyone of anything; I gotta do what I gotta do.
The bedsheet feels icy. The hands that ties me to the bed reeks latex. The ropes are so tight that I can’t move an inch—not even my head.
“Brace yourself, it will hurt slightly.”
There are six scientists around the bed, one of them sits beside me to inject the syringe. I can see a slight tremble in the scientist’s right hand as he raises the syringe to his eye level. Melancholy sits heavy in the air; they all look as if they’re mourning for a soon-to-be-dead person.
Wait. This could be my deathbed.
“Just gimme the thing already!”