I thought I could be a spy. That was, until I was supposed to be. Sitting in a dark cell, the walls seemed to come into me. I felt alone, afraid. The only thing in this room was the stool that I was sitting on, and a table turned dark with years of blood stained into the wood.
The door opened, and I saw a man. He was backlit by the torches behind, but I could tell he was to 'interrogate' me.
As he walked closer, I saw the dull gleam in his right eye, the way it never moved. I knew that eye was the reason I was here. The milky whiteness, covered in black, like the shadow of an old day. A day of pure happiness turned to horror.
And I remember that day.
Dear reader, I remember that day.
He walked closer still, but by now I could see another gleam, coming from his hand.
A chainsaw.
And I felt it was over. I wished it was over because I didn't want to suffer through whatever it was that he had planned for me.
In that moment, I wanted to die.
Instead of killing me, he began the questions, his voice a mask of pleasure, horror, guilt and a voice changer.
"Who is this woman." He showed me a picture.
"I- I don't know." My voice sounded weak and fragile. I forced a more assertive tone into it for the next one.
But, Instead of asking me another one, he took out the chainsaw, its 10 inch blade gleaming in the dull light. He revved it, and gave me a look.
"Because you refuse to cooperate, I will have to hurt you."
Then, he cut off my middle finger.
The pure agony almost set me to screaming, but the happiness and satisfaction it would give him, as well as my training, kept me from doing more than grunting.
Instead, I threw up, the rush of bile coming to my mouth the only satisfaction I could gleam.
I hadn't eaten in a week.
"Who is this." He asked me again, handing my a picture of a man.
I studied the man, and almost gasped.
"It's you." I say, the authoritative tone in my voice coming back once more, though weaker. I handed it back to him, my left hand to his right, hand barley keeping from shaking.
He frowned.
"What do you mean it's me?" he asked, not pleased at my skill.
"It's a picture of you as a child."
"Wrong." he stated.
He started to cut off my right hand, from the wrist. This time he took his time. It took a few seconds for him to hit the bone.
This time I screamed.
I could hear the scream, high pitched and rebounding, but I couldn't hear the sounds of the chainsaw. I could feel it, but couldn't hear it over the sounds of my screams. I could barely see his face as he grinned at me through the tears in my eyes.
Then, his expression changed. My pain changed.
It was no longer the agony of losing a limb, but that of regaining it.
I looked at my hand, and gasped through the screams. I was no longer screaming, but they surrounded us. My hand was pulling itself back together. The cut in my wrist was already almost healed, my finger was already moved from across the table and fitting into the joint like it's supposed to. As I watched, the finger reconneded and the skin was almost reformed in less than a minute.
He stared at me, blank faced and confused.
I grinned at him.
He turned on his heel, and marched away, chainsaw still running, still covered in blood, my blood.
This time, it was I who had the satisfaction of a job well done.
You see, reader, I didn't put my hand back together, it was all a mirage. I had many helpers in that building, many more than anyone could think possible.
All the blood and limbs, they weren't my own... well, my left hand was real, but nothing much else was. We had found an abandoned body at the side of the road, and used one of his arms.
I smelled bad enough to cover the stench of rotting flesh, and it worked perfectly.
They way to put a hand back together is to use strings and wires to create a hand, and when he cuts through such things, you pull them back together, and with the help of a projector, make it seem like it is all real, that you have a magic healing ability.
And that's what you learn in the field, how to play magic tricks so you can live.
