You’re dressed in immaculate white, dazzling smile underneath a mask. Your broad shoulders stretches across the brightly-lit room.
You’re standing tall, looming over my prostate body laid carefully across the metal bed. I’m wearing nothing but green scrubs, so thin, I can feel the cool surface of steel.
The knife clatters as you take it from the tray and inch it closer to me. I hear the blood rush through my ears. My chest is pounding.
I look at you.
Of course you make no hesitation, your long fingers deftly making an incision. The knife is quickly engulfed by vermillion. Everything feels like a whisper until the lids of my eyes close like curtains.
When they open again, I see my hands, pale and delicate, in a basin. The fingers are relaxed.