Sickness

The darkness is encompassing, complete and yet somehow lacking.  There is more than darkness here. It whispers and it moves, just out of sight and out of reach.  He hears them speaking close and far away, moving in between, shuffling and scuffling on the tiled floor.  Or least he thinks it's tile.  He prefers to think it's tile, because what else would be that bleached and white and smooth, what else would make that audible 'clink' as taloned toes moved across that vast surface, what else could possibly...  Well.  He prefers to think it's tile.

There's a current in the air, and a heavy scent that wafts upon it, a scent of musk and death that makes the bile rise in the back of his throat, and he is almost grateful that he cannot look around.  The paralysis is more than fear alone, though he suspects that plays a great part.  No, he can feel the strange bindings round his arms and legs, torso and head.  He can feel the rough uneven surface he is bound to.  And try as he might, he is unable to ignore the sensation of something crawling - on his skin, over it, and sometimes, most disturbingly, under it.  He would shut his eyes if it would relieve the sensation, if would make any difference at all.  But it wouldn't and it doesn't so he stares, stares into the unempty darkness and waits.

He doesn't know how long he waits, how many counts of the strange rustling noises and rasping breaths.  But someone must have known.  Soon, or maybe later, there is movement near his head.  Part of him wishes to strain against his bonds and peer into the face of his captor, and the other part is begging him, please for the love of all that you love don't look.  But all these notions, these ideas are silenced as the figure moves into view.  He is certain now that it is not tile that lines these floors - it can only be bone and flesh, for the cruel hooked beak of a mouth and claws like death can suggest no other thing.

He believes he would scream if it would make the slightest difference.  But it wouldn't and it doesn't so he stares, mindlessly, horror-struck and spellbound all in the same instant.  He waits.

The voice is old and wise at first, if only he could ignore the shrill hissing undercurrent that drives away all sense of comfort and in its place leaves dread and nausea and an intense hatred  for all things avian in nature.

"We have deliberated at great length," the creature speaks, indicating others watching from some indeterminable space.  "Yes, we have deliberated, and we have found the thing to do."  It sounds so very certain.  Certain of what, he has no desire to know, though he is sure he's about to find out.

It continues.  "There is a sickness here."  It rasps and creaks, slow and measured, and the stench is overwhelming as it reaches out to touch him.  Claw-tipped fingers on gnarled hands, points resting ever so gently just above his left breast.  Just enough to strangle the breath in his throat and send his heart racing in a desperate rhythm - it knows what is coming.  "A very great sickness indeed.  But do not fear.  We have determined to remove it."

The sudden icy sting of razor sharp incisions, five of them, carving out his chest and extracting the diseased thing that is his heart is enough to jolt him back to consciousness.  He wakes with a violent start only to find himself embraced by the familiar loving restraints intended to keep him from harming himself.  Or others.

The white is such a welcome relief from the darkness, and the offensive smell of death and decay is replaced by the wonderful assault of bleach and ammonia.  Sterilization.  Civilization.  This is where he belongs.

The doctor's face looms over his, oddly covered by a surgical mask.  The doctor doesn't wear such things unless he's performing an operation.  He is confused but the doctor seems pleased that he is awake.  The doctor turns and gestures to an audience he cannot see, high above their heads.

"As I said, gentlemen, there is a sickness here.  A sickness of the mind.  But there is no reason to fear.  This man shall no longer be a menace to society, for we have discovered a way to remove it."

The stench of anesthetic is overwhelming and the gleam of the scalpel in the fluorescent light is altogether terrifying.  He knows that he would scream if it would make any difference.  But it wouldn't and it doesn't, so he stares, and he waits.