/lit/ - Literature

>>19304518
On November 9th I'll give a team of total strangers legal consent to tear open my left leg in order to perform reconstructive surgery on a torn Anterior Cruciate Ligament in the bowels of my knee. They will first slice open my quadricep and fish out from it's depths a replacement tendon, a piece of me that does not want to leave where it belongs, to crudely tie it to an alien assignment far away, like a child affixing a rubber band to a toy, grinding, burning, cutting, sewing, irrigating. In this violation of everything nature designs they will bind myself back to myself with parts of me from different regions. I lie awake at night picturing this gruesome ritual happening, a tube shoved down my unconscious throat, my flesh splayed open for all the world to see, a technical performance as a means of currency and survival for these people. I wonder how it will feel when I wake up and there is no more nerve block. How will it feel when my allergy to opiate painkillers forces me to go with nothing, for my soul to flow through the leg again and identify the depths of their trespass? Who will I be when I wake from my forced sleep, and my eternally honest body screams in horror at this purposeful destruction to which I reluctantly agreed? With this intrusion and rearrangement on natural things, will I somehow diminish and be less of myself?