The Metamorphosis

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 22, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 22, 2016





The Metamorphosis


The following is a loose transcription of a dream which the author was privileged enough to experience after having absorbed a few weird tales more than perhaps was prudent.

While admittedly somewhat perturbing, it is devoid of all graphic violence, technically.


It is a fairly disheartening thing—quite literally, in some cases—waking to find oneself the surprised subject of an unsanctioned vivisection, as Dill Robison happened to one fine summer’s night.
His eyes blinked sluggishly open, grew accustomed to the pitch-black air—broken only by a dim candle’s flame—that surrounded him, and he noticed that his innards were, oddly enough, visible.
Dill was understandably somewhat disturbed at this turn of events, and felt a dull twinge of pain, which was, of course, only imaginary. Someone had taken very good care in anesthetizing Dill’s abdomen, allowing them to transport him somewhere far away from his usual bed—he lay on something of unfamiliar firmness—without his knowledge, and begin to dismantle him for to inspect his inner workings; a deep incision ran from the lower end of his sternum to just below his navel, through which his intestines bulged. He wondered fleetingly why his muscles had not contracted to close it. He noted that there was a distinct lack of extreme, horrible pain and copious blood loss. Whoever had done this was a worthy professional. Speak of the devil.
A man’s figure emerged silently from the void. He wore his hair long, black and shiny, and had a stylish goatee clinging to his chin. He was dressed like a respectable nineteenth-century gentleman. It was just Mr. Old Curmudgeonly Albert Jinkers.
“Hello,” he whispered without emotion, kneeling over Dill.
“Um—hi,” Dill replied, “May I ask what is going on here?”
“You just did!” the man chuckled, “You see, I am a madman, and I have taken the liberty of absconding with your limp body to my home and setting it on the cool kitchen floor. The latter to avoid upsetting my wife, who sleeps upstairs. She would chide me so roughly, if she knew, no doubt.”
“I see.”
Mr. Jinkers continued, “I have also removed your nerves and blood vessels; thus that I may painlessly and without quagmire find out how your guts look—most especially the elusive eucalyptus organ. It’s greenish, I believe. Anyway, your belongings sit in a pickle jar somewhere over there. You may pick them up as you leave.”
“Oh.” Dill said, plainly.
He was beginning to feel a bit terrified—he was alone in a dark house in the middle of the night, with a complete stranger.
“I shall proceed, if you please.” Mr. Jenkins explained.
Dill didn’t, really, but he was silent.
Mr. Jenkins raised a vegetable-chopping knife from the floor, and Dill closed his eyes in grisly fear. There was an odd sound, and some pressure on his belly, then he opened his eyes to see that a second incision now crossed the first. Their contents were now much more visible, and he nearly fainted. Mr. Jinkers whisper-cackled evilly, so as to keep from waking his wife. He stared greedily at Dill’s twitching—er—parts—and said, “Do you mind if I take those odd tube things out? You may have some indigestion afterward, but—”
Dill did not reply to this, either, but was held more by fear than courtesy. He gasped and vibrated with sheer terror.
“Stop, in the name of the Law!” shouted Lieutenant Alabaster Crud, who has a weird name. He burst into the room as the gasses hissed alight as suddenly as they could do that.
Alabaster pointed a gun at Mr. Jinkers, who said “Oh, my…”, while two of his subordinate police officers lifted the madman by the shoulders and led him through the front door.
Dill was left lying awkwardly on the floor with his most private parts open to public viewing. He was afraid to move at first, and didn’t even know if that were possible, but he soon found that he could sit up and get to his feet without trouble. He walked over to Alabaster.
“Excuse me,” he asked timidly, “But do you think you could call an ambulance?”
He pointed to his stomach, and the officer looked.
“Oh, that’s fine,” came the reply, as Dill’s belly fat was pinched and thus jiggled slightly, “That’ll heal up in a couple days.”
Dill had several doubts concerning this, “I really think that I need a doctor.” he insisted.
Alabaster shook his head, “It’s okay, I tell you. Just go about your usual business.” He turned away.
Dill frowned and looked down. The skin flaps had replaced themselves, and now it only looked as though he had an ugly scar, much like those which hot cross buns posses.
“Okay.” he said, then looked around the room. It was quaint.
“Oh, yes,” he said, remembering something, “Will he go to jail?”
“He would,” Alabaster replied, “Only he’s just made his escape.”
Dill nodded, as this turn of events was to be expected, and then thought that he should at least get stitches, so his belly wouldn’t catch on anything and fly open again. He was afraid at what pain would happen when the anesthesia wore off, since he’d forgotten that his nerves and such were in a pickle jar.
He had remembered that he could stitch himself up without the help of a doctor. It was a skill he had acquired long ago, in his mother’s pre-school class.
He quickly found some greasy old orange twisty-ties in a drawer and began the process. No sooner had he completed one corner of the wound than his mother appeared suddenly from thin air. He was accustomed to this.
“Now be careful, Dale,” she chided, “You could hurt yourself, getting stitches. Remember that it’s always really unreasonably painful to have them removed.”
She popped like a soap bubble, and Dill paused. Did he really want to do this? Maybe he should go to a doctor; they had better thread which wouldn’t hurt as much to take out…
He looked down, grimacing, to remove the twisty-ties from himself, but he noticed that he had absent-mindedly left his navy-blue jacket on, and the stitches were securing it tightly to his body. How silly of himself! He sighed and decided to go to his workplace, even though he knew the morning’s events would do a bit to shake up his day.
Dill’s workplace was a colorful, pyramid-shaped tent that sat in the attic of the Canvas Products building in downtown Idaho Falls, where he and six Spanish-speaking nuns from Brazil manufactured building blocks for children. They all had a yellow relief of the letter “A” on one side and a banana on the other. Sometimes Dill accidentally dropped them.
Dill sat in his cubicle and typed at his computer. He must have fainted, for the next thing he knew he was waking up again, lying on a table with his jacket gone. Edna, who was a stone-faced Theremin addict, had probably called a doctor. Within moments, a wise-looking young man entered Dill’s section of the tent, confirming this, wearing a blue mask and latex gloves.
“All right, who called for open-heart surgery!” he called excitedly.
“Um, I don’t need open-heart surgery,” Dill said nervously, “I just need this to be fixed.”
He gestured. The young doctor seemed disappointed.
“Oh, is that all?”
He moved closer to Dill, inspected the wound, made a little picture frame with his thumbs and index fingers to look at it through, then nodded authoritatively.
“I can fix this in a few hours. Here, drink this stuff.”
He handed Dill an ampoule of crystal-clear liquid, which Dill drank and realized was only vodka mixed with rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide and a dash of paprika. He could make that at home.
Dill fell into a hazy, feverish, blurry world of hallucination and weird prickly feelings, and awoke some time later feeling as though he’d been asleep for exactly seventeen years.
“Good timing!” the doctor said, “Flex your stomach muscles, and see if the stitches hold!”
Dill hesitated fearfully, then grunted in compliance...

 At this point in the dream, the author’s brain decided that it was an appropriate time to wake him up. The world will never know how it ends, because he feels that he is entirely too sane to complete it consciously, and that a sequel is unlikely to present itself.

The End

© Copyright 2018 Atticus J. Pennyfarthing. All rights reserved.

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