On the tilted table I lie.
Sore arm injected with serum.
Paralysis abides.
In the dim, I see tools
hanging, dangling,
clanking in the vacuumed wind
of a swiftly opened door.
And, in walks DeSade.
Aye, what will it be today?  says he.
(From his trouser belt hang more questionable instruments.)
*He pushes a little trolley with silver trays on it*
Aye, the sutures have healed remarkably well!
Let’s see, how many toes have we left?
It’s too too bad, we ran out of anesthetic last week.
Oh, but look!  Eight fingers, two thumbs!
But don’t worry, we won’t remove any of those today.
I’m a man of my word.
But I do have bamboo, for you, hoo hoo!
(On the silver tray, shaved wedges of wood, a tiny silver hammer which he picks up)
This used to be Maxwell’s you know.  Hah!
What about a little cleaning of those dirty fingernails of yours?
*I piss myself*
And, for dessert, it’s the bolt cutters again.
(A moan escapes me, unarticulated.  I taste the salt from my nose and my tears)
(I wish, I wish they could paralyze my eyes as well)
*My moronic scream as he drives in a wedge, right down to the quick*
Then, swiftly and deftly, he grabs those cutters of awfulness, and CLACK!
The spray of my red life blooms on his clean white apron.
I see my mother in a cloud.
I pass out, in radioactive pain.