“You will no doubt notice that your motor skills have been compromised. That’s from the anesthesia, which will soon wear off and you’ll regain complete mobility. All things considered, your injuries are minor and you can expect a full and expedient recovery. I’ll have a nurse check on you soon. Best wishes.”

He pats my chest and stands, placing the penlight on the instrument tray. He swings the overhead lamp away from the bed, giving me a clear view of the mirrored ceiling, where my reflection is marred in darkness, and exits through the door. A second goes by, then a ring of lights rimming the ceiling begins to grow brighter, bringing my reflection into view. My head is fixed in place so that I can only look up, and I’m mesmerized as my features take form in the mirror above me. The blue sheet covering my body. My pale face with its salt-and-pepper goatee. There’s a red cap covering my scalp, which must be some kind of protective bandage. Although I can’t feel the wrapping, and the closer I look the more I realize that it’s not something covering my head. Rather, something is missing from it. The top half of my cranium has been removed and the red cap I see covering my scalp is my exposed brain. A dollop of blood oozes from my severed scalp line and I feel it drip down toward the corner of my eye.

I’m starting to breathe uncontrollably – I’m about to hyperventilate. But the rush of oxygen awakens my paralyzed limbs, causing pinpricks of pain as the blood returns. My arms and legs are heavy and clumsy, but at least I can move them around. Blood begins to seep from my scalp from my exertions, stinging my eyes. I rock forward, once, twice, then sit up. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. Fuck, there’s no way I should be lying here alone with my brain out in the open. I’m going into shock. Finally I get to where I can control my arms and, without thinking, reach up and touch my head.

I feel hair. Wet hair, but hair. Not the slippery folds of my gelatinous brain. It doesn’t hurt to touch, I can feel that my scalp and cranium are still in place. It’s not even tender as I would have expected from getting clubbed over the head. According to the mirror, however, I’m caressing my most delicate organ – the source of all my dreams and grave addictions.

There’s a small hand mirror on the instrument tray beside me. I grasp it with wet, red-stained hands. Hold it up and see my matted hair soaked in red liquid. Fake blood apparently. I look up, see my brain. Look to the mirror in my hand, see my blessed scalp and blood-soaked hair.