The pendulum sweeps before my eyes—to the right, to the left—while his soft, disembodied voice whispers imperceptible phrases to me, the quiet syllables bleeding into each other like waves. Honeyed tones carry me into something like slumber; just a hint of wakefulness remains.
No! I think.
That soft and caring voice.
No!
The tide of syllables rises, sweeping me off my feet.
Deeper, dreamier.
I’m a surgeon. The cut must be precise.
“Scalpel!”
The nurse hands me the knife.
I’ve trained my whole life for this.
The dream ends in a flood of red—an ocean of red.
Tale Told 