After The Fall: remembering 14th Nov 2012

I don’t remember the moment of impact. Did I pass out for a while? I’m not sure. I only remember lying on the ground in the dark and not being able to get up. The recollection fills me with a dull horror like the one I felt at the time.

Something was wrong with my body and I was unable to take in my surroundings. Lying on my back, I could see only what was directly above me. I was beneath some kind of bridge or flyover. Then I began to switch between two states. In the first, I was firmly in my body. But in the second, I was outside myself, looking at my own helpless, injured form. I began to think I was watching a TV programme. I remember clearly thinking, ‘God this is boring. There’s a man lying on the ground talking to himself. Hardly any dialogue and it just goes on and on. Grim and depressing. What a horrible TV show’. Then the awful moment came when I realised that there was no TV programme. I was the man on the ground and something terrible had happened to me. Several times I tried to move, to find some way of standing up, but my body stubbornly refused to comply. Minutes later I was back in the other zone, watching myself on television.

“Let’s cut his willy off”. Had they really just said that, the men and women surrounding me, looming menacingly with false looks of concern on their faces? Yes! They weren’t real doctors. They were agents of God. The bad God. They were going to cut off my willy, wheel me back up to the bridge on a trolley and then throw me off again to finish the job. They were also going to humiliate me sexually and take photographs. I could hear them giggling about it.

“We’re going to have to cut your clothes off”. Well of course. I have to be nude if you’re to get your kicks. It made a horrible kind of sense. I felt scissors biting along the legs of my trousers. Soon I was naked and partially covered by a blanket. What was the point of that merciful gesture? Why try to protect me from the elements if you were going to murder me a few minutes later?

The trolley was moving. Up and up, back to the bridge. They were going to throw me to my death any moment now. But then we were in a building. They’re good, I thought. They’re good at this. So good in fact that their props, their medical uniforms, have allowed them to pass unnoticed into a hospital.

They wheeled me to a private room where they could continue tormenting me. And it was back to the genital-severing. They were talking in code: “we’ll trim the grsgcf jigku…and then cut off his gestgo hufchr and put it in his mouth and take photographs.” Cruel laughter filled the room. I felt a device being placed around the centre of my body. This was it. The worst kind of mutilation imaginable was about to be performed upon me. I clamped one hand around my groin, including my testicles in the protective grasp. The pretend doctors stopped what they were doing. I had bought myself a little bit of time.