Chapter 1: Part 2, Shattered

With this revelation his nausea subsided slightly. Almost as if the realization that the offending funk was emanating from him somehow lessened its intensity. There seemed to be someone fishing out there because it felt as if he had swallowed a lure, every now and then the fisherman would give the line a tug and a sharp cramp would make his stomach flutter. That was fine, the cramping was something he could manage, the lack of control that accompanied the waves of nausea though, that he couldn't deal with.

The motility of his arms seemed to be getting better. His hands clawed the floor as he tried to explore his surroundings. His curiosity overcoming the pain from the innumerable sutures threatening to tear under the tugging muscles. Every muscle felt as if it had its own mind, each one out of place and not knowing how to work as a team. In fact this feeling didn't stop with his muscles, it continued into his mind. His psyche was a shattered mirror strewn across the floor. Each fragment reflecting some idea that demanded action on his body, trying to impress upon his awareness the directive that they were the right one. Trying to cope with it his entire mind reeled with varied interpretations of every sensation. An unknown groan lost within garbled gasps escaped his mouth in some lost dialect only known to devils. His fragile consciousness succumbed to the pain, nausea, and constant strife within his skull until it finally pulled him under the dark and troubled seas of sleep.

Horrifying images found fertile soil in his sub consciousness as dark seeds took root in aborted thoughts. Flashes of severed hands and organs fused together created a backdrop of puzzle flesh. Pieces of some child's puzzle forced together in an attempt to complete the scene and understand the picture. Corners backwards and edges in the center. What was to be a Thomas Kinkade was a jumbled mass of meaningless lines and colors. Creatures not meant to exist but forced to exist clawed at cages with appendages in wrong places. While needles pierced as they did their work dragging along miles of black nylon. They did their best to fill the gaps between mismatches but couldn't cross the great divide when form did not meet function. Utilitarianism at its best you see, get it to work first, all else is secondary. Beings filled with screams of pain unrealized because vocal cords were deemed tertiary.

As the calamitous visions withdrew other layers of sensations became more pronounced. Pins and needles turned to electric pulses of angry nerves as phantom limbs came online. In the distance bones crunched with a deafening scream. A disembodied voice chimed in "He's the first... the archetype. He was based off our success with the canine studies."...



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