"Alien Rebirth: Of Love and Death" - Part 2 (The Fine Arts)

    Ok, so before each chapter, I write a few lines to accommodate the reader into the times of the story, the politics of the time (because this story is about science and government cover-ups), or you can think of it as a sort of excerpt/introduction to ease in the reader’s mind into the new scenarios presented.

Before we start, I would like to point out that this here story is mainly about the power of love between two people, let’s say a beauty and a beast, horrible transformations and the adaptation of the human soul or the acceptance of superficial appearances by the Power of Love, and about the darkness and light one finds in oneself; and, obviously, to make it more interesting there’s the whole Alien thing, Parallels in time, and so forth.  I introduce the beauty in this second chapter, then there’s the second part of the “seemingly” dead scientist from Chapter 1 (the Post or Note I have written before this one)...

So here it is  (an introduction)...

     The government we’re not allowed to see...

     President Harry S. Truman signed the National Security ACT on July 26, 1947, and immediately named Secretary of the Navy Forrestal as the first Secretary of Defense.  Forrestal and others were sworn in September 17, 1947.  The ACT established “under the National Security Council” a Central Intelligence Agency headed at that time by “Director,” Rear Admiral Roscoe Hillenkoeter.  It provided a comprehensive program for future Security of the United States, and the ACT created the NSC to advise the President with respect to the integration of domestic, foreign, and military policies relating to the National Security, with the especial duty to “Access and Appraise the objectives, commitments, Risks, and possible lethality of certain Top-Secret endeavors.”

    The funds for the CIA, and “especial projects,” were hidden in the annual appropriations for other agencies.  Today, in all, U.S. Intelligence operations (“especial projects” clad in secrecy and away from the public) cost more than 2 billion Dollars annually. 

 

Introducing “Operation Hybrid”

     CIA, NSC especial division (61 stat. 667-50. Code: A.I. – 12)  -  Especial studies Project -  Project /operation hybrid  -  Top secret research and development.  -  Dr. Dereck H. Stanton, neurobiologist/neurophysiologist/chemist.  -  Other scientific team.  Group set up inside NSC.

    In 1954, signed by President Dwight D. Eisenhower.  Order number 54-12. Access to dates, locations, advanced alien technology, all pertaining data. Founded to better understand, utilize, control and create a better physiology. Human DNA - Extra-terrestrial DNA.

 

Chapter two —

“The monster within”

     Somewhere where the screams of the soul and the flesh cannot be heard.  More than 60 years later…
The extreme torture of the soul.  The barbaric rape of the mind.  The unsuspected violence against the flesh.  The devouring horrors of the already dead...  Sentences which spread a perfect depiction of the perverse and macabre, of the occult and inhumane.

Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  Profound thoughts which inundate the very essence of the ill-fated psyche, the last which lies in the defunct perceptions of our own physical state.  Strong emotions which shake the very core of our existence, the one screaming for empathy and understanding from our fellow creatures.  And so it is that humans are our fellow creatures, the ones we build and share societies with, the ones we communicate and commerce with.  Eeeeek! Eeeeek! That is undoubtedly embedded in normalcy, in the whole of the sane perceptions of our world; however, other creatures living among us might ignore these here simple words of empathy and understanding.  Dark, psychotic creatures.

Like there exist human darkness and psychosis as well.  Dr. Emma R. Drayton has kind of a strong aversion for these particular creatures.  Their souls, they’re just— Well, she doesn’t know about those yet.  Or if they even have one in the conventional sense, like you and me have ours.  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  But what she knows, what she hates, what has her on the very edge is the disturbing confusion and unrelenting panic brought about by her dire situation.  Yes. The very entrapment.  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  The very trespass of her social liberty.  The very freedom of her physical-and-spiritual being now lost, taken away, robbed by the monster.  The very mocking of her pure scientific mind, of her peace and conscience.  And, to her, the despicable assailant in question is nothing but just another bizarre creature with a god-like complex, like the serious psychosis in some humans that I briefly mentioned a few sentences ago.  And so many of these creatures abound as it is; some Good, some Bad, some neutral.  Populating in the depths.  Breeding freely. 

But, like I said, they’re nothing to her. And yet, she fears their insanity, their so-called scientific malice, their lack of restraint on the passions of their polluted hearts.  Self-contradictions that kill slowly...

                                  First Intellectual Test

Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  Her silent burial of death.  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  But so the silence had ended when her heart had begun to pound and pound, when her beautiful eyes had encountered a wall of wooden slabs, solid, unforgiving.  And the sound of it, to match the deadly rhythm of the new sound.  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  The horrible, dull sound.  Yes, like the rabid dog scratching the door of your bedroom at night.  For it is a very intrusive acuteness.  For it stabs the ears without mercy.  For it has no rest, no breaks.  For the powerful scratches of her broken fingernails against the old wood are truly maniacal now, certainly fraught with the passions of the truly perseverant and possessed.  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  There is nothing rational about it.  Or maybe there is.  Only time will tell.  But the smell of fear, of desperation is stuffing the tight space around her.  And maybe that is a good thing.  The adrenalin running through someone’s veins does miraculous things.

Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  Time and time again.  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  Nonstop.  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  But the bathing of the scratching things. The tainted horror swallowing them.  Cascading and cascading.  A waterfall of strong, sweltering pigments of unique texture and life.  Oh, the crimson!  The crimson that runs down her petite but powerful fingers!  From top to bottom!  And soaked!  Soaked like the jaws of a vicious dog ripping apart the bloody arm of the gentle kid!  Soaked like the victim of a bloodbath after her enraged murderer’s appalling actions!  And there has to be pain, as it is the convention, as it is with consequences in everything.  But, however, she does not even feel the excruciating pain now; she rejects it until she’s finished with her madness, with her gory but necessary task.

No!  No pain!  Not one bit!  Too busy scraping and scraping the ancient wood.  Her mind is certainly made, her objective targeted.  And she becomes a raging bull when she puts her mind to it.  Emma is tough.  Affected by the confinement in the wooden box, but tough nonetheless.  It was thus marked at birth, when not a pip, moaning or cry assaulted the silence of the delivery room, where the baby she was had seen her surroundings for the very first time, the beginnings of her new world.  Her loving, single mother had taught her well; taught her to stand up for herself, educated her in the arts of human perception and patience, self-control and understanding.  She had been raised fatherless and proud of it, for she had absorbed the bad experiences, the bad memories, and turned them into strength, into courage and steely determination.  You might fancy her standing tall in front of a group of troglodytic-macho men who drink beer and spit obscenities while laboring and showing muscle.  She wouldn’t join in, of course.  Too much of a lady to do so.  But she would truly put them in their places and take her fair share of hard labor.  Dammit, she would!  Yes, indeed.

She would take it, not wait for it to be given to her.  For only the feeble-minded waited.  For only the weaker females waited for testosterone to give them a chance, to give them purpose, a place and comfort in life.  She is firm in her beliefs, spiritual but not religious.  She is serious in her posture, very mature but not to the point of being boring.  She is intellectual, cunning and curious but not deceiving or shifty.  When she graduated in nuclear physics there was a great ball her friends had thrown for her.  She wore a tight, but very decent and conservative, clear-blue dress with a perfect bow on her cinched-and-thin waistline.  A well-mannered and attractive catch for the many dancing suitors of that night.  Her romantic life, when she had time, was always one of struggle; she was too demanding, too much of a perfectionist for the simpletons that daily accosted her.  Her brain first, love later.  And she hasn’t changed too much from back then. And so now she carries in her mid-thirty’s.  Still physically fit, tall and gracious, kind of heart but of a tough exterior.  The arduous task of finding true love—or letting true love find her—occupies more of her heart now, but her intellect always a higher percentage of it.  That might change in time.  Perhaps as this here story develops into the darkness of the madness to come. 

Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  And so the wooden, unforgiving, rectangular and obtrusive box seals her fate currently.  Her hard, fibrous prison of lethal firmness and unbelievable power of perversion brings dismay and desperation into her soul.  ‘Lethal firmness and unbelievable power of perversion.’  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  The spirit of perversion in the mind.  Of this spirit, philosophy takes no account.  Yet this is the spirit that crushes the soul, that vanquishes morale, that destroys clear thinking.  And all this from a simple box of wood you say?  Ah, but it is more.  Oh, so much more!  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  It is the hidden fear it releases in the heart and in the mind.  It is the feeling of absolute hopelessness and devouring anxiety that mortifies the very existence.  Extreme torture indeed.  And now she is also sure.  And she is also sure of her demonic assailant’s intentions.  She can’t see him in her mind as she keeps on fighting, and she didn’t see him when she was abducted.  Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  But she knows now this is the psychotic, mad scientist kind.  The group despised and separated from their own peers, from their cosmic kind.  The ones that did this.  The ones that lack that universal empathy, the ones that are pure animals, the ones that have a sickness of mind, and the ones that threaten our human way of life.

Eeeeek! Eeeeek!  She stops and breathes.  Her lungs feel dusty, constricted. There are a few holes in the slabs underneath her but the oxygen in her box is thin.  She’s exhausted.  She re-groups her thoughts.  Accommodates to her situation better.  The silence nags her like the fly constantly buzzing in the ear.  There’s a small space to her sides so she uses it to stretch her arms, ease her swollen joints.  After that, her analytical brain rests in details and she searches for something.  Something she had ignored before.  Diabolical!  Machiavellian!  What is this?!—  As she palpates the wooden ceiling of her jail, maybe two or three inches above her horizontal lay, blind in the void of blackness, her drenched, slender fingers investigate the hair-thin partition on the slabs which have now a small fracture due to her frenzied scratching and hammering.  She feels further and, to her surprise and ire, finds cemented structure on the other side of the mentioned slabs, exactly touching the rectangular casket, hugging its ceiling.  ‘Dammit!  Is this my sure burial?!  And what if there is cement all around the brute?!  What chances do I have then of freedom?!  How could strategy and patience conquer this beast now?!’ …

“AAAAARRGGHH!!!— STOP THIS!”  She loses it.  She frees tension.  Tears roll down her cheeks.  She releases the toxins of impotence and anger.  Silence continues its nagging course.  She breathes and embraces the nagging silence.  The ire dissipates in a few seconds.  But, all things considered, this doesn’t make much sense either.  No, it does not.  She then stops her rushing thoughts.  Her mind wanders off from the panic, takes a welcomed break, and immediately her well-trained self-control takes full charge of her emotions.  She converts herself in that which fathoms mystery and haze, in that which recognizes reason and clarity in absolute obscurity.  And again and again.  It reverberates within her: ‘This doesn’t make much sense.  No.  It doesn’t make any sense at all.  Why would my psychotic-and-powerful abductor need to go to such lengths to just inflict terror in me?  Why inflict terror in me at all?  Why not cut me open in a filthy room with my unconscious body lying on a table?  Why bury me in this wooden prison all wrapped in cement?’  And in these queries she is not deceived or deterred, for she succumbs to the next set of inevitable calculations.  ‘Unless, conceivably so, I am not in fact a prisoner of this wooden prison, and this cement is not my forever seal.  And unless, reasonably so, this chilling enterprise summons my psychological dexterity and understanding beyond all which relates to my current physical chains and morbid confinement.  More crude in the representation, like the lab rat in the maze must find the way out on its own wits and under its own management.  Except the maze is my wooden prison and I’m the lab rat.’  Wretched!  Low!  Inhuman!  Cold-blooded Payback!  Only in the revolting mind of the sick and twisted!  Scientific—if it should be call that—MADNESS! 

...And none else than perverseness.  None else!...  So it is.  Yes, this has to be.  Selfish wretchedness!  This must be his bizarre purpose.  ‘And the why I have these holes providing the much needed oxygen.  Also the why no one’s mocked my pain with violent-mouthy sounds of Cosmic Origin, or stalked furtive visits of one crypt keeper.  But just to study me…??  To study us…??  To break the spirit of the weak…??  To weed out the feeble-minded from the strong-and-rational mind…??  What then?  And why proceed this way? …  But in retrospective I still remain perfectly conscious of the slaughters, of the many kidnappings.  Brilliant minds that never knew this, that never understood this.  Physicists, engineers, chemists.  But not the normal folk.  Why?  Why not them?  Why just us?’  Still she can’t stop her present physical situation.  Think.  Think.  Think.  But she must.  Do.  Do.  Do.  Then, for a function such as this, she turns her full frame sideways and palpates the floor of the very box which jails her, where the holes are smoothly drilled.

Then, dipped in total blackness, her blood-spattered hands follow the three walls of the same: the right and left walls and the bottom.  Reconnoitering.  Sensing. Knocking.  Tapping.  Listening for more cemented outer surfaces like the outer ceiling...

Silence now...  For a few seconds.

Then.  The wood seems to be alone.  Nothing impedes its breaking.  She thus feels a heaviness leaving her, she feels less confined, more equipped to deal with the brute.  But then.  The mystery knocks further in her.  The bottom holes!  Yes!  The holes should reveal her particular locality, which obviously corresponds to some elevation.  And by means of difficult turning, she props her own body in place and hears something ghastly of origin, Kroaak!—  A low-screeching sound, then a soft stabilizing of the wooden slabs right beneath her.  Something instantly pricks the back of her brain!  Where da hell am I penned?!  What evil contraption is this?!  Is the cursed box hanging from something?!  Am I about to fall to my sure demise?!  What test from hell is this?!  And without faltering, she eyes through one of the ten-cent-coin-sized holes and sees semi-darkness.  Beyond it, she distinguishes the distant floor, and not only that but what appears to reenact the very sense of passive horror in her.  A cold tingle that runs along her spine!  A frozen rock that chokes her right away!  What she sees is a bed of mortal spikes which mocks her pitiful existence and waits for her imminent falling!

Jesus!!  Resting right on the floor and at about only twenty feet from her hanging burial casket, the infernal contrivance lies eager to fulfill such gruesome toil that I know by now lingers in your mind, reader.  And so there is the answer to her questions.  Or the ending of her questioning.  For her beautiful body would be violently stabbed by a thousand needles and stay there until drained from the vital fluid.  In her mind, this would play out more morbidly, more real and full of blood.  Death of beauty and perfection.  As beautiful and perfect as Death can be for a true Master of the Arts,  which such master artist conceals the painstaking emotion of the prohibited and abnormal to the eyes of laypeople, and to therefore later devote his immaculate toil and suffering to the immortal pages of human history.  And in Emma’s mind, images of her body pierced and motionless, her face cracked and colorless, and not a sign of the uniqueness that had once made her whole, but just waves of red flooding the semi-darkened room and leaving her frame repulsive and dull, skeletal and off.  Kroaak!  But, notwithstanding the horrific and disturbing, appealing to the present raison d’être and intentions so far claimed by the faceless monster, there has to be another way!  There has to be!

Her immutable presence there isn’t just an impulse of the specter of decay and oblivion, and she isn’t just another victim to be trampled on and butchered in a sick game of wits.  No, there is a perfect reason.  Of course, morbid and sick, but perfect nonetheless.  And perfect timing.  Perfect.  Now, call it a speck of light in the darkness or the hint of a miracle from God himself, but the next happens like one of those odd things in life you ignore how in fact did happen but you just know it did.  Now, her attention is at once snatched away by pure serendipity, by the pure twilight of hope and deliverance.  Through the small holes and defying the obscurity beyond her prison, her lovely eyes fall upon the extremely taut rope horizontally alongside her hanging casket and four feet downwards from it; that is, in between the mortal bed of spikes and the horizontally hanging casket or wooden box she’s currently in.  Kroaak!  An infernal test indeed!  More than a game of wits and strategy!  Where she would have to let herself fall on her demise and instantly rag on gravity’s muscle and swing her body to thus catch the rope.  And all this before the thousand needles would violently pierce her through like a soft piece of cheese!

She sweats like she never has before, even though there’s no high temperature to censure.  Her hands are clammy.  Her pulse races.  She pictures her physiology; the rushing and ramming against each other of the billions of tiny cell structures, the trillions of sharing impulses of electricity firing in commotion to her dreadful perceptions and worse projections of imminent failure.  She feels a persistent and vexing phantom possessing her, the disaster-prone creature born from impotence and fear, loneliness and turmoil, such which embodies the very presence we all feel next to us whispering lethargy and idleness when there’s a mountain too high to climb or an unknown terrain to walk. How on earth can she do this then?!  How can she act like this under such pressure?!  This is about survival of the fittest!  And it is all!  And she has to be the fittest today!  She must be!  But, though the words paralyze and desolate, deep inside she knows her own worth, she knows she has the strength and the agility required for the gargantuan task; not because she was a gymnast long ago, but because she breathes the fire her mother gave her and because she has a very rich understanding of life.  And, alas, she also knows that the slabs under her won’t hold her much longer. Kroaak!  Then, she momentarily does away with the eager tension and sense of unrest going off in her, slowly mutilating her; not because she chooses to do so, but because she has to and because she knows there is ALWAYS a way out.

Life situations are challenging and demanding for us to grow and deserve chances at success; but in its damning essence our human nature is to be nearsighted and comfortable with the simple things we do and with our journey.  But she strives everyday to better her own human nature, to deserve chances at success.  And, needless to mention, she has to be successful now.  There is no other choice and there is no more time.  Death is not an option for a woman of her character and fortitude.  And in this unbreakable, mental pact of her own, she physically searches inside the calamity-breathing box, she calmly but relentlessly searches.  Her swollen and bloody fingers concur at this.  Her hands feel for some kind of handle or gripping groove, a latch or something designed specifically for the infernal contraption, for the test from Hell.  And after a few seconds of defiance in the obscurity of this here casket, she finds something amidst the perfectly smooth wood.  A small nudge in the right direction of the deadly jump, and something that can give her maybe a few seconds of momentum to swing her body closer to the distant rope.  Maybe a few seconds. It all depends on the thickness and strength of it. Kroaak!

But she doesn’t even ponder consequences, as the wooden floor is entirely giving out even as I type this.  So, verily I say, her mind holds her judging thoughts and dark euphoria for another time; her physical body excludes all tremor and paralysis, maybe to hit her later if she survives.  Krrrooaaaak!  Like the grip of a bodybuilder, after her slender body twists like the grace of a professional gymnast, she then delivers the tremendous grasp on the two wooden handles located on the left side of the box; thus her two hands summoning the blood of her extremities away.  All to avoid that gruesome death.  All to stop the almost inevitable from happening.  The horror and tension of what could happen as blood claims the Fairest Flood and darkness demands the Eternal Darkness.  Krrrrooaaaaaak!  This is it, she knows from heart.  The sharp fangs of the monster, she is about to experience. Into the real darkness, one second away.  Crunch time, as they say.  KKrrrrooaaaaaak…

SSCCRRAATTAASH!!!— The flooring slabs explode in several thousand pieces under her weight! It rains small and deadly on the mortal bed of spikes!  Emma holds herself from the wooden handles like a pendulum, steady, powerful, undeterred, unflinching.  Her concentration is fire-eating and absolutely sharp and crude, at which the very rapture of true believers couldn’t even move one inch.  In this high state of awareness, where there can be not an error, not a mind shift of any kind, she knows that seconds are running twice as fast and that the wooden means will break apart any second now. In this kismet of false-and-wicked origin there is no insurance, there is no new contemplation of the divine, for she images nothing but to reach that line to her salvation and breathe anew.  The natural load wadding her body becomes like an anvil hung by a thin thread.  The heat and pain make its way down her like the venomous spider that crawls down the hopeless, hanging victim.  As she gently swings her body towards the distant rope, her avid awareness catches the measure of fault in the handles.  The wooden means of her physical aid are certainly about to crack! About to expire and spurn her!

And as she feels the looming nails coming out in a single burst of maniacal rage, her soul and her mind harmonize further and hope for another to-and-fro move.  At this flash of a moment, nothing can possibly mollify or explain the tension and devouring dread that beleaguers her existence, that jams her with full force and violence.  Her sweat is salty and irreverent on her eyes.  She squints once rapidly.  She sets on target, delivers herself to the High Heavens, and lets go of the box handles that grumble their last before they fall cracked to their utter demise!  When she’s falling at the caress of gravity, her mind becomes an empty field and the explosion within her flesh is cold and hot at the same time, and so she reaches that point in evolution all humans reach when we have done our best and exploited our complete source of energy.  As she touches the targeted rope, her arms and hands acquire the mass and strength needed to squeeze and hold on to her dear life.  It all happens so fast!  Her heart stops for a quick second!  She did it!!  A great bellow of victory!  A smile from ear to ear!  She breathes once more and liberates the very demons that so viciously had her in chains.  Her heart comes to his labors.  The relief she henceforth experiences is indeed so magnificent that she even embraces the semidarkness filling what seems to be a very large-and-spine-chilling cavern.  But, however, before she judges and dissects the rudimentary place, her knees bent slightly, she swings away from the distant bed of spikes, and falls to safety!  She has gotten out of the maze!  She has tricked Death!  Finally, she has passed the first test!!

 

     Somewhere in a Utah desert where God doesn’t reach anymore.  Around 3:00 AM. 

At night, the vistas here differ nada from the nightmares of the afflicted and desolate.  They carry the disease and smells of thousands of years’ decay.  They complement the incessant roaming of shadows and ghouls in the night.  They present giant creatures of callous rock that stand selfishly still and observe the masked and aberrant, the torturous and maddening befalling.  The violent winds howl and weep for and at the secrets of black-and-deceitful men who have no place and existence in the most curious discipline there is.  History’s indelible mark, fuel of evolution itself, and cause of pride in all of nature— God’s perfect science.  And God’s perfect science isn’t found in that huge area range, valley of the dead and folly, nucleus of the governing mountains and all rocky elevation.

And there’s a small complex of bungalows of protected wiring and electrified fencing, which lies buried from the public eye, which excrete and follows hidden tunnels of underground muscle, which falls straight into that physical place where shackles are produced in great measure and demons reside in all glory and spread.  Where gloominess dwells and concealments are born out of the prohibited and abominable.  Where there is no outwitting guffaw or defiant voice but just government secrecy and control, cover-ups and oppression.

Four-hundred, maybe five-hundred feet below the mentioned facade of surface, the intelligent burrows of human demons are quite sullen and cold, extremely classified and unscrupulous. They are made smooth and non-paradoxical, cemented and with metallic display unblemished under the lights, expensive and of great engineering, with artwork and history plaques plastering its white walls. They lead to a semi-spacious surgery room of the weirdest and most inconceivable kind, deep in the hollows of The Monster Within, a new Black Death indeed.  Furthermore, instruments of dissection and death around doctors and scientists clad in black, protective wear, equipped with oxygen masks and small-flattened tanks of no heaviness climbing their backs. The particular lights are non-intrusive to their obscure labors of mad science.  The offending smells of chloroform and Clorox combined with cellular decay and open flesh are as strong as a thousand gallons of a skunk’s urine.  Machines with obvious dyspeptic boor breathe in and out of tubes digging into the unconscious victim, under the control and vigilance of the Frankenstein men.

These men are working on somebody, extracting something that can only sicken the undisturbed mind—guts, blood, small-flesh samples.  Somebody humanoid.  Not human per se.  Not Extra-Terrestrial per se.  But humanoid.  A believed comatose being butchered, being tested, being studied and experimented on.  A comatose victim known to the reader.  The Hybrid Monster Within  (as seen on Part 1 - my other post).  Lying on a surgical bed in Hell.  (After the happenings in Chapter 1.)  And my lungs stung as if a million tiny needles were piercing through with a full-inebriated sense of the undead and rotted.  Oh, the pain!  The unbearable pain was corrupting my being and twisting my insides like the destructive vermin of a foreign space creature unknown to our science. A venomous-and-scorching liquid was flooding every duct, every physiological cistern embedded in me.  My eyes.  My eyes were two sizzling, fleshy marbles violently pushing for a way out of my hollowed sockets; and I remember I felt the beams of pinching man-made light enter the pupils of my eyes like a raging bullet, in particular my evil eye which screamed in the worst agony.

There was no difference in being alive or dead.  And so my wake was immediate and explosive as soon as I was summoned from my sixty-year-plus grave, as soon as the pain snatched the remnants of my twisted, morphed soul.  “YYAAAARRGGHH!!!”  And my powerful bellows filled the chamber with lethal agony and wretched joy, with a terrible non-human violence and human weakness.  Because I was cursed!  Because I had died and been called back to suffer my own repugnance, to become the reject of my own existence! 

“Christ!!—”  they cried as if they had seen and heard The Devil Himself.  One of them, suddenly squeezed by the mighty claws and paralyzed by the gruesome terror entity of my very wake, fell prey of my evil eye and was most likely snatched away in horrible psychosis by the pulsing veins harassing the sclera or white of it.  And then he was ejected backwards by the invisible force of that same terror felt, so slaughtering himself against the machines and sharp instruments on the stationary table behind him.  My mind was instantly sprung from the vile depths of that which cannot be accounted, violently torn from the thousand fathoms under secret sea enterprises of that which cannot be unseen or unheard, un-smelled or un-felt.

I had been taken hostage by my own desperate passions, by my own unusual dreads and forced memories.  Sixty-plus years!  An eternity!  A cursed eternity of déjà vus and afflictions I can’t get rid of!  Too many woes.  Too many as they were, as they are.  Too many that damned my very existence, my violent thoughts, my bloodying endeavors.  Eternity.  In which time I saw my mother constantly, an angel begging, pleading for her life, for her soul, for her sanity, for her everything.  And the many questions I’ve had about that fateful night, the many which had had fried my untainted youth, were then shoved on me, in front of me like a baseball-lightning projectile.  I then experienced it myself thus from her perspective: Lost in the backwoods of Mississippi, as I’ve mentioned in the chapter before, being taken away, forced into calamity and confusion by devils so physically deformed that did bring instant chills to the very marrow.  And these here devils.  These wretched fiends were cloaked in physical repugnance and tangible death, lithe on their shoe-leather-structured feet, stealth on their naked forms and muscular smoothness.  Consequently, a vision of a giant aircraft of flat metal and powerful technology right over me, or rather, right over her.  Then, in the midst of this cruel rapture from the heavens, a dozen arms of hard, bright alloy from a smaller craft birthed from the colossal beast were ejected on me, blasted on me!, all over me!  Next thing, an explosion of red-and-white light swallowed my being whole!!  Then, an aggressive snatch!, Death Itself took me!, took my mother.  So indeed!  Paralyzing nightmares that would turn the most courageous-and-lethal soldiers of fortune into mere children scared by the dark closet in their own bedrooms.

And this is just the baseline, the appetizer before a long line of horrors that would devour your reason and slash your nerves.  So then, breathe, for I dare not to promote ill in you further.  But these images!  These images were torturing me, were implying that “unusual” (for I didn’t dare dig deeper into the wild imaginations of my lost memories) sources of biology had been involved in my mother’s unexplained vanishment that fateful night.  For all that is holy!  These horrible images had been so vivid and outrageous, so intense and dreadful that I couldn’t have denied them.  Or could have I?  Goodness!  My mind!  My brain!  Had these memories been real?  Was my brain inducing my mind into more hell and aberration?  Had my mother really disappeared like that, taken like this?  Had these visions been the visions of outer— No!  I had to stop myself.  Come back to my current reality.  My current fire and brimstone.  And, besides, I would digress again. 

And so, into it again: these high clamors born out of inner turmoil and pain shook and thrashed my butchers here and there, to and fro like an earthquake.  And at the sound of operational, clanging instruments of obscured deeds, I started ripping the infernal tubing which had been inserted deep in my ear, nose, chest, and lower stomach.  Blasted!  My inner flesh, the inner lining of my very organs, where there had been injections of the slim, cylindrical material and small needles, was brutally afire, and therefore I could feel the extremely vexing-and-abrasive crudeness of the torturous apparatuses.  For God's sake!!  What on earth was I?!  What more than just a joke?!  What more than just a trampled piece of meat in the circle of a pack of ravenous hounds?!  For this was real.  Alas, too real.  And as my blood and the non-descriptive, foul bile were flying through the agitated air, my hands were pulling on the tubing with great strength for there was strong tape attaching it to my bare flesh.  And my wounds were exposed like the young baby to the mortal disease.  And I could see raw nerve and muscle, as these contraptions were profoundly in my gut; I could tell they measured heart rate, blood composition and viscosity, breathing, possible hearing waves, and, most likely, of course, direct brain signals.  And additionally so, in my raw confusion and blinding rage, I was automatically aroused and sprung from the confinements of my firm surgery table; and this Monster Within me that did this was relentless and merciless and carried a bloodthirsty appetite for blood and revenge, and It was filled with vulnerability and fear and uncontrollable power and utter disgust.

And so the air became poisoned with the loud screams of my black-clad butchers, as I had begun the appalling slaughter on them.  Yes!  Ripping throats with the sole squeeze of my hands!  Slashing vitals with my long, tough, and razor-sharp fingernails!  Tossing and pushing with my increased strength like they were chickens in a locked chicken coop!  The men dressed in protective wear now torn and slashed by my madness, stained with the cherry-colored liquid that had once fueled up their own illicit dealings in the first place, taken by a sweeping force beyond their simple comprehension, beyond the most vulgar night terrors and most gruesome imaginations.  Putty under my destructive hands!  Yes, wretched  putty they were!  I stretched their necks and held them until they were mere purple road kill hanging from a butcher’s den!  Such keen was my rage and serotonin inhibition that produced I the great trickery of letting go of one prey to exit the room in acrimonious deceit and contempt—and he thought I was being compassionate—but, covered in the crimson, while he crawled freely towards this exit door, I cackled within me and physically reached for the back of his lacerated neck, then I wrung, and I wrung, and I wrung until all life had evaporated from his carcass, and brutally I tossed him aside like garbage and so directly into the wall which cracked minimally at the terrible impact!

Furthermore, the blood spilled and the corporeal deformation were unimaginable!  Loathing!  Satanic!  But, however, I will not venture into more gory detail.  Although, I will say this: What is most disturbing to me now, one precursor of my constant nightmares, is my back-then, morbid-and-unexplained fascination of this particular appalling event.  Was it genetic?  Instinctual?  An environmental cause?  Physical brain damage?  At the moment, I didn’t know, I didn’t care; one of those things you do without further analyzing it.  But my rage was out of control, obviously.  And it reverberates in me that my so-called “father,” that bastard that left us when I was of a young age, used to beat on my saint of a mother.  Damn he!  Wherever da hell he rots now!  So, in utter revulsion, I chanced that genetics could have had a claim on my abhorrent behavior.  And it is of worth to mention the fact that brain concentrations of substances like serotonin—brain chemical that affects and controls mood balance—are not immutable.  They are not simply genetic givens, as in experience affects them as well.  Certain kinds of stressors can decrease brain serotonin levels and thereby change behavior.  For example, if you isolate animals at crucial, developmental stages, if you keep them caged all alone, their serotonin drops.  What is more, when you then release them and put them in contact with other animals, they are fiercely aggressive.  Pain and fear also reduce serotonin levels and promote aggression.  As I said before, I had been caged in mine own nightmares, in mine own mind for more than sixty years.  And now I was put in sudden contact with other animals.  I wasn’t in control, for the terrible Monster Within Me was.

I was even disgusted by my own fleeting thoughts.  But the boiling revenge and the exploding confusion were too great, too toxic, too widespread already in me to stop.  Needless to append, at that moment and in my corroded mind, I did not know if I lingered still in mine own nightmares or if I had become prisoner of these real demons of black appearance.  I then shook myself in surprise when, out of nowhere, my bursts of anger started to violently levitate and fling things at a random fashion, quick into the maelstrom of chaos and gore.  Here and there!  Like the relentless birthing of that which is wicked and possessed!  To and fro!  Plastic tubes!  Strange-looking vials with sludgy liquids!  Metal medicine cups!  Suction tubes!  Sutures!  Ear curettes!  Blades!  Forceps!  Every small-and-medium-sized  bowl and surgery utensil my bloodshot eyes would rest upon.

I recall my ineffaceable impression, which it was more or less of surmounting archetypes of the powerful mother lifting the car off of his dear baby.  Thus a new wave of strong fear was instantly injected in me, roused with the anger of a thousand claws escaping from an underground Hell, and such mimicked thousands of volts of electricity that shook my marrow and took over my senses in the most profound hypnosis.  In my aroused state then I would hear the demented voices of hundreds of demons chatting me up in many a code and language, such demonic of origin and an instigator to my feverish passions.  And so I boasted.  I indeed boasted at large.  And in this here whirlwind of physical levitation and gory sacrilege, I looked around with my evil eye and I saw my work with infatuation and madness, I saw the mangled and slaughtered corpses of my black-clad butchers.  There were pools of sickening red everywhere!  Flesh chunks all over the red-bathed chamber!  God!!  Goodness and all its holiness save me!!  It was a brutal scene right out of the mind of the depraved and satanic, and so one of pure carnage and dementedness; decapitated heads, rearranged faces, wounded torsos, broken legs, etcetera etcetera and so on and so forth.

And then. I stopped...

I embraced the silence...

I leaned upon the surgery table.  And I held my wounds.  Then I appeased my disturbed mind.  Then I breathed and felt in me.  Then I tried to recognize any emotion left within me, whether those of a lost human or a ferocious beast.  I looked inside.  I found nothing.  Not even a hint of hatred or a pinch of love.  But, alas, I didn’t care. 

Muffled voice and heavy sounds~ “Quick, this way!  I want groups of five and five, left and right!”  The tough-and-commanding voice increased in intensity as the boot-stomping neared the outside of the heavy door of the surgery room. “The rest form a blockade! …Close all the exits!”  Right then and there, there was an explosion in my cursed being, an incredible surge of adrenalin and psychosis that brought back my anger, my agitated breathing and rapid heartbeat.  There were more!  There were more demons outside!  Blasted!  Was this not going to ever end?!  I was exhausted, but not physically, mentally.  I found my red-covered, four walls foreign and bizarre, closing in on me.  I found my whole universe deserted, collapsing on me.  But, however, I didn’t hesitate but stood and pounced forth.  Then I came to a halt in my steps and watched a pool of blood flow under the window-less door.  A sure testimony of my lethality, such directed to my new adversaries waiting outside.

The voice returned calmed, loud, firm through the door, maybe through a megaphone of some kind.  “Doctor Dereck Stanton!  Stop right now!”  I was bewildered at that name.  “…Listen to me!  This is General James Craddock, in charge here!  I know that you need answers to all your questions, and I know you must feel confused and out of place, but I need you to come out with your hands in the air or we’ll have no choice but to open heavy fire on you!” 

A general…??  In charge…??  My mind stung and it was in knots again.  Who da hell were these men?  Why was I here?  What did they want with me?  I couldn’t even remember my past.  Human past…??  Alien…??  Animal…??  Demon…??  I looked at my hands: They were large, muscular and pale, they were bathed in the crimson cry of my now-ghostly butchers, and they were speaking to me but I couldn’t fathom the meaning, for I only heard the mellifluous sounds of wretchedness and death, for I heard the great ‘Mozart’s Requiem In D Minor,’ The Death in Hell Requiem, and, too, the grievous words of the Master Himself came to me as if from beyond the grave, ‘I FEAR I AM WRITING A REQUIEM FOR MYSELF.’  And so I wept. I did not understand why, but my face was showered with tears of miserable emotion, of truly abysmal properties.  The crow!  The raven!  The ominous bird that brings that which lies in our blood, that which manifests itself as the end of all our physical journey.  And so I was filled with the stinging presence of angered, honey-making insects within my black-tainted heart. 

“Doctor my patience is growing thin!”  the arrogant-and-commanding voice was born again.  “We have a plastic explosive on the outside of your door!  If you don’t come out, my men will bury you alive!”  And my connection to all of this that was happening.  My connection was, umm, like a locked, hazy dream; it was definitely there in the back of my mind, I just couldn’t retrieve such critical data because the little pieces were spread and boomeranged back and forth and everywhere in the tornado of my confusion and solitude.  But these men, they were threatening me with their fresh words, with their puny weapons.  And exhaustion or no exhaustion, I wasn’t going to be chained and subjugated anymore.  Not ever again.  Not as long as I had a last breath in me.  I pushed in deep the sounds of death and proceeded forth, kicking corpses and clearing my path.  There was silence, as much of the tenseness as I could take.  There was some kind of panel with small, flashing lights on the door, located right above the handle or knob.

The door was ajar, though.  So I slowly opened it; in a way not to agitate my unknown adversaries before time.  I could smell their fear and tension, for these were like invisible bubbles hitting and swabbing my nostrils, taunting my nerves, making me bigger and more enraged.  And I started to see the place for what it was: A closed fortress with many tunnels residing within, one to my right, one to my left, and more beyond the very spacious room or hall directly in front of me.  And so I had opened the surgery-chamber door completely and was devising my plan, my revenge.  But, obviously, I wasn’t thinking clearly.  But pride and confusion and rage were still too strong feeding me.  Each man was hiding behind barricades of perfectly shaped wooden boxes at least seventy feet away from me; some wore fatigues and carried heavily equipped rifles trained on me, some others wore black suits and ties and pointed their handguns at me.

Physics experimentation was a very strong theme here, for there were vaults of electromagnetism, small-scale models of inventions of demonic nature, pulleys, levers, and infernal machines that I did not recognize in my haziness.  It was also well lit and the beams of this man-made lighting caressed the different metals of the aforementioned machines.  And then.  Literally as it happened.  Something pricked the back of my brain!  Something shook the hidden memories which concealed deep in my subconscious.  At the far right of these barricaded men-at-arms of egotistical warfare, surrounded by some type of large, cement-mounted bradawl and computer stations (which I didn’t recognize as such at the time, for this was all sixty-years-into-the-future new to me), there was a really large, circular hull with a metallic shine that was almost blinding under the lights of the fortress.  What seemed to be the protective-and-insulating outer garment of a space ship of, most likely, non-human entities; and sitting right atop it was half of the frame of a flight-deck control command.  Around this control command, a very robust ring was supported by a fencing mechanism.  And this mentioned space ship, or part of a space ship, had either been in a terrible crash of impressive proportions or was currently being built by human technologies I ignored, because the lack of important parts, whether from its propulsion motors or hull properties, and its abundance in holes was of high numbers.

And like I mentioned, my brain was instantly pricked at the vision of ingenuity and perfect technology, as it woke up hazy images of my forgotten past.  And there were flashes and annoying, distorted sounds that I didn’t recognize, that clouded my mind further and raised many more questions in me.  Even now I couldn’t explain to my reader what I saw and felt, for it was so vague and it was so quick that my memories fail me greatly now.  And I felt odd and dizzy for a few seconds, as if I were under the influence of a high fever.  I then shook my head, concentrated on my own heartbeat, and so the artificial-feverish sensation was gone. 

“Welcome to the future, Doctor Stanton.  Sixty-five years more or less, I believe.  …From all the damned blood coming out of the room, I take it you decided to become a vicious murderer.”  The general stood tall and trained his rifle on me, advanced a few paces, then stopped.  He did not fear me, for he was firm, undeterred, arrogant, too old and stupid to pose a threat.  “Colossal mistake, son!!  Now, slowly put your hands up!”  He was giving me orders.  I didn’t like that.  He looked puny, arrogant, expendable, all talk and no action, host to his own superiority complex that needed substantial trimming. 

I then stared at my sharp fingernails, the blades of my claws; the smooth edges would cut clean even the air, I suppose.  And I stared at them for a long time, and did so with particular detail and morbidity; I was certainly enthralled, hypnotized by a potent mix of power and disgust; and I read the markings on them, the striations, the so-called mapping or palmistry which spoke to me about hardships, bewilderment and insecurities. 

“Son, quit your thinking of doing something stupid!  I have trained snipers that won’t hesitate in blowing your brains like the wolf did to the pig’s feeble hut!  You hear!”  Then he spoke to one of his barricaded lackeys,  “Now, you two, carefully bring the mirror!”  After I had spotted the four new-located snipers hiding in platforms above me and behind General Craddock,  I found condemning aberration in its purest-and-most-shocking form.  My eyes!  My eyes were certainly cursed!  Vile poison flowing in my esophagus, squeezing my throat! 

What I saw reflected in that mirror destined to open my eyes and shake my very soul was the work of Satan Himself, that Evil Serpent that had once tempted Eve in God’s Garden was now rounding my heart and tightening its body around it in the most calm and subtle way.  And so I was introduced to myself, image which I didn’t believe at first, but then I fell into its abyss: I followed my horrendous shell, and my hands attested to the muscular deformations of my face, as my nose and mouth were of somewhat large-and-powerful appearance, my eyes dull and mysterious trapped in the hollow decay of dead cells, and I presented a bald pate and bone markings that accentuated my demonic complexion, which was of a pale grayish-orange sure to fill the night terrors of little children.  I was half-naked, and only short pants of some minimal tightness dressed me. The muscles in my legs, torso, arms and neck were those of the slender bodybuilder healthily fed and exercised; and, furthermore, I mimicked an Adonis of Greek mythology of monstrous appearance and corrupted chromosome.  My ears were injured and bleeding like my upper body, they also were of regular human shape but a bit pointy in the apexes.  Then I was snatched by the reflection of my feet, they were of normal size but webbed between the toes, less than a duck’s but affected nonetheless.

“All your questions will be answered if you submit peacefully,”  he said in a calmer tone, as the two men held the six-foot mirror by his side.  “…I only wanna help you, doctor.”  I locked eyes with him.  Then I looked at my image once more before they took the mirror away.  I was the fruit of their sinister labors, the fiend screaming for revenge on his Doctor Frankenstein. 

However, the general’s eyes were resolute and honest.  And I was created for a purpose.  I was this aberration for an end, their end.  I wanted to find out.  I needed to find out.  For a creature without knowledge of his own purpose in life shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe, shouldn’t even exist without that mentioned knowledge.  ‘Should I then submit?  Should I stop now in the clasp of my evil adversaries?  Should I pardon their transgressions and haughtiness?  No!  I should think not!  They needed to pay what they owed to Mother Nature and to me.  Even though his words appealed to my interests, nevertheless, I advanced on him.  My studious-and-cautious, yet firm-and-threatening steps were like the pouncing of a wild cat before jumping and tearing the victim to shreds.

Cleenkaa!—  The cocking mechanism echoed in the great chamber.  “Ok, that’s enough, son!  Listen to me now: Do not give one more step or we’ll make a colander outta you.”  But, soon after my first step, I felt the rush of several chained detonations going off inside of me, just like a fencing outfitted with hundreds of small bombs exploding in succession from my head to my toes and along veins and electrical pathways of my own being.  And I could see and feel the general’s own heart pounding, as I felt overwhelmed by my senses and physical properties.  JESUS CHRIST!!!  I was high and elated at the point of no return.  I had been detained in my prison quarters, confined to my torturous nightmares for so long that I had forgotten the subtle satisfactions of breathing a less polluted air, of standing in a greater, physical expanse, of actual communication with another, real being.

That’s when I felt the significant tug on my lungs, on my intricate ear canal components, on the surface of my dull-and-pale skin, on my inner-brain surface.  I was instantly consumed by a drunken disposition that flood in me, that engrossed my muscle fibers, that gave me an almighty feeling of strength and agility but that, at the same time, precluded me from giving one more step towards the old man.  I was feeling something that I cannot easily describe in my penmanship, that I can’t possibly flourish with scientific, poetic, or any other deep-prosodic wordage; but I can just describe it as a gradual-and-well-conditioned surge from the apex of my head to the ball of my feet, or, as if such were so, an immobilizing wave of cramps like the ones felt when there is overexertion of muscles.

And then my mind became a blank.

And then I dropped to the ground. 

Last thing I saw were my adversaries’ feet moving in on me.

And then I fell into darkness.