I Died Today by Seth Harrison

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I'm sorry. Please, mother. I really don't know. Let me out. Please.

"You'll stay in that closet. You understand me? Your father will be here. He'll beat you. He'll beat you, Darell Reidmiller. He'll beat you and leave you here all day. You're worthless."

I know.

"Worthless. A nothing."

I know. "I'm sorry, mother."

[The closet door opens.]

"Mr. Reidmiller, this is Dr. Wiley. With the Soft Tek operation team? You remember."

Disinfectant. The stench of ammonia opened my eyes faster than anything I was hearing. My eyes. "Doctor, you grew a goatee," I said, seeing his dark Cherokee complexion and Germanic eyes, blue as blue can be, hovering over me with relaxed fascination. A smile widened the new growth, revealing whites that reflected the laboratory lights set to a comfortable 25-watt dim.

"Yes, Mr. Reidmiller," he said. Something like a monitoring machine twirped then buzzed. "I'm glad to see you're awake and well. I think we can skip the optics test now. Excellent." He padded me on the shoulder.

The physical sensation was overwhelming: I had a body—one I couldn't recognize. It felt lighter, smaller. "But your goatee," I persisted, not fully realizing the terror expanding within me.

He looked at somebody else in the room. "We had," he said, "some slight complications. It took some time. You're fine now, though. Everything is fine. Right now we need to check some things. OK?"

"Tests," I said.

"Yes, tests."

"I hate tests."

[The door shut.]

Technically, I slept forty days and forty nights. That's what she told me, the technician inspecting me now. Why, then, do I feel so tired? I haven't had a body for over a month, yet I feel like I just worked fifty shifts at a full-service convenience stop in downtown Sleepless Nights. Scientists. They definitely forgot to double check the decimal on this algebraic formula!

Ouch. Yes, that hurt. If you hadn't paralyzed my vocals for this sensory test, I'd tell you so, you bitch. Hmmm. Maybe scientists aren't so dumb.

At least she was accurate with that needle, causing just enough pain without drawing blood. Don't ask me how. Maybe it was a special needle. I can feel a bump on my finger, my new hand. My beautiful new hand. Synthetic down to the fake bone. Majestic. Perfect. I'm a delicate god.

Now what is she doing? I hate the sound of metallic instruments around me when I'm naked and strapped to a table held upright. Sorry, but this is just plain wrong. My ass is numb from the cold metal, too. Wait. Is that a probe? That better not—

Good. I'd rather you stick that in my ear. Thank you.

I keep wondering what my face looks like. Maybe that's why you're mute for these tests: to keep your Ps and Qs for when it's appropriate. No hassle. One thing at a time. I can't help noticing, though, how there isn't a mirror around. Even the walls are dulled to prevent any kind of reflection. It smells in here. Stinks.

"This is a serious issue."

Mothballs. Why the hell would a laboratory—

"You saw the responses to the questions we gave him. Doctor, the wave pattern looked like an Etch-A-Sketch made by a chimp."

I'm not hearing this; it's coming to me.