Misery, The Muscle
It was impossible not to scream as they pulled my arms out of their sockets. I watched looking at the scrub-clad doctors, my eyes fluttering to the HATC logo that laid across the scrub's chest. They held me down as two others started attacking my shoulders with scalpels and bone saws. I watched them as they cut into me, crimson red pooling from my arms, the sawing was so painful I couldn't take it. I faded, my head hitting the hard operating table.
The next sharp stab of pain woke me, it felt as if someone had put a red hot poker into my very heart. They had taken off my arms and let them fall to the floor, I saw only briefly the pools of red they laid in on the stark white floor of the operating room. The stabbing pain was multiple tiny black screws being twisted into my skin. Sleek black metal in a stark white room, red blood flowing. The doctors left and I let out a deep cry for the loss I had suffered and for what had been taken from me. The sobs wracked my now broken and hate-filled body. I hated everything, the HATC, the doctors, but what may be the saddest was how much I hated myself.
