Unwind (Unwind Dystology 1)

"You may feel a tugging sensation near your ankles," says one of the surgeons at the foot of the table. "It's nothing to worry' about."

* * *

Forty-five minutes in.

So many surgeons, so much activity. Roland couldn't remember ever having so much attention directed at him. He wants to look, but the nurse holds his focus. She's read his file. She knows everything about him. The good and the bad. The things he never talks about. The things he can't stop talking about now.

"I think it's horrible what your stepfather did."

"I was just protecting my mother."

"Scalpel," says a surgeon.

"She should have been grateful."

"She had me unwound."

"I'm sure it wasn't easy for her."

"All right, clamp it off."

* * *

An hour and fifteen.

Surgeons leave, new ones arrive. The new ones take an intense interest in his abdomen. He looks toward his toes but can't see them. Instead he sees a surgical assistant cleaning the lower half of the table.

"I almost killed a kid yesterday."

"That doesn't matter now."

"I wanted to do it, but I got scared. I don't know why, but I got scared."

"Just let it go." The nurse was holding his hand before. She's not anymore.

"Strong abdominal muscles," says a doctor. "Do you work out?"

A clanging of metal. The lower half of the table is unhooked and pulled away. It makes him think of when he was twelve and his mom took him to Las Vegas. She had dropped him off at a magic show while she played the slots. The magician had cut a woman in half. Her toes were still wiggling, her face still smiling. The audience gave him thunderous applause.

Now Roland feels discomfort in his gut. Discomfort, a tickling sensation, but no pain. The surgeons lift things away. He tries not to look, but he can't help it. There's no blood, just the oxygen-rich solution, which is flourescent green, like antifreeze.

"I'm scared," he says.

"I know," says the nurse.

"I want you all to go to Hell."

"That's natural."

One team leaves; another comes in. They take an intense interest in his chest.

* * *

An hour forty-five.

"I'm afraid we need to stop talking now."

"Don't go away."