Entanglement: A Modern Frankenstein | Creation

3.1 Survival

Chicago, Illinois | May | Timothy

He was coming off the best high of his life. 

He had never used heavy drugs—at least not to the extent of many people he spent time with—but he had tried coke, heroin, and ecstasy; they didn't hold a candle to this feeling. His heart was racing and his breathing was rapid. And his mind. It was soaring.

He was so lost in the thrill of the experience that he didn't know where he was. He only risked a few seconds of distraction from his joy to try, and fail, to recall.

He paused his enjoyment for another brief moment to remember who he was and was gratified with a name: Timothy. Timothy Owen Sawyer. He recalled he was a twenty-four-year-old man. His muscles felt stiff as he turned his head twenty-six degrees to the right and two degrees down. His face had always been slightly non-symmetrical, but right now it felt exceptionally so. He thought he even had the numbers to prove it, if he could just get to a mirror and see his gray eyes recessed deep into his face. He knew he wasn't about to win any 'sexiest man alive' competitions with those inconsistencies and his prematurely receding hairline, certainly not at the moment.

He first saw the four-and-a-half-foot desk, but it looked more than four years old and weathered. The desk supported a twenty-three inch Dell monitor with model number 2007WFPb manufactured in 2006, but purchased on June 3, 2007 beside the 2017 Dell aged laptop he had purchased 3,682 days after that monitor with model number...

He tried to clear his head as he angled it twenty-two degrees. He felt a dizzying sensation and realized that not only was his mouth dry, but it was moving. His head was swimming with confused thoughts but then he heard himself mumbling as though his hearing just began to kick in.

"Ive-ick-bee-even-seenindeesasasasa-ooh-ick-BLAH-ive-eeeeee-deeseesasaeve n-be..."

He heard these garbled sounds coming from the room. He would have assumed there was someone or something else making them if he did not feel the vibrations emanating from his own throat. The sounds continued despite his intentions to stop. It felt as though speaking were as autonomous as the blood flowing in his veins or the beating heart propelling it.

"ooh-ive-ive-nin-eseses-ive-BLAH-or-bee-sa-even-ick-or-or..."

The inarticulate sounds and vibrations continued through his throat. They were only interrupted by the gasp of breath to refill the lungs and recycle the process.

He forced fifteen muscles to move in his face, but continued to exhale through a tightened throat and chapped, quivering lips. He was in tune with his body in a way he had never imagined. Despite the awareness of every muscle, he seemed to be more a spectator than a conductor.

The babble continued despite his attempts to regain control of his facial features. He was able to move his head, so he looked around the 220 square foot room with four windows, two lamps, a TV, and more, all of which he barely recognized, but he stifled the desire to begin labeling their model numbers and stats.

He focused on his fingers to coerce them to move, then his stiff hands. Forty three percent of these muscles had been stretched when he first sensed the chair he was on and his feet within his shoes. 387 seconds later, he became certain he had peed in his pants at some point in the past. He was convinced he could determine the quantity of liquid that had escaped by the feel of the pants against his leg, the humidity of the room, and—

He had to stop himself short when he recognized he may have crapped his pants as well.

"Ut-a-uck!" he forced his lips to attempt. It was his first successful disturbance of the murmuring vibrations. The vibrations turned to rumblings as he attempted to process the unsettling feeling. Something was building near the base of this throat. His last thought before returning to dark oblivion was the sensation of his throat becoming clogged.