Hostage to Your Body
You don't hate your job, but you've always hated the fluorescent lights. They made it so hard to keep track of time, falling behind when you think you're so far ahead of schedule, panicking and rushing when you've got nothing to worry about, it was all so dreadful, especially before the store actually opens. The lovely customers always hated to wait, especially for your world famous shitty donuts and passable bagels.
This morning was the same as ever. Icing donuts, listening to your favorite songs, hoping to God that your coworker doesn't try talking this morning, no idea how much time had passed unless you turned around to check the clock on the oven. It was all the same, but then why did it feel so wrong? What was off? You don't even know when you realized it, but your breath was shallow. Felt like you were barely even taking half a breath. So you try to take a deep one, just to get back in the rhythm. You try again. You try again. Again. Again. Nothing.
You have no idea what's wrong, your best guess is the onset of a panic attack. You turn your head to your coworker to tell him you're gonna step out for some air real quick, but your mouth is sewn shut. Your lips don't even twitch. Your head turns back to your work, your hands keep dipping the donuts in icing. You set the one in your hand down, and stop to reset and center yourself. Except you don't. You pick up another, then another, your arms aren't yours. You dip one donut too far in the icing, and the molten maple gets on your thinly gloved hand. It burns like hell, you want to rip the glove off to stop the pain. Your hand isn't your own.
Everything feels off. The table you're working on is too short, you're having to reach well behind what you normally would. Or is it that your legs are longer? Your back? All of it? Your coworker finally talks, you think it's something about what he had for dinner, but you couldn't care a bit. Your mouth finally opens.
"Yeah man, how was it?"
You want to scream. Wether it's from rage or fear, doesn't matter, your mouth won't let you. He's talking, the words aren't real, not to you at least. Your legs walk to your morning Red Bull, and takes a big swig of it, more than you'd try to drink at once, at least. Back and forth your body takes you, a few donuts, big drink. You feel sick. The wall of muscles that hold your organs in place feels like a dam about to break. At least your body has the sense to tell your coworker you're gonna run to the bathroom.
As your legs drag you clear to the other side of the store, a new sense of dread sets in. Like some silent voice whispered in your ear that you took a wrong step, and it's all over from here. A step outside the bounds of a simulation, and now the system is taking over. Your stomach feels even worse as you begin an internal prayer, begging any God that is listening to give you control back, that you'll never step out of line again. You hear no words in response, only a deafening chorus of laughter and the eyes of your creator looking down on you in disgust.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Same dirty old uniform, same face you were too tired to shave or even wash this morning, but your eyes weren't yours. Devoid of emotion, glazed over, hollow. How did your dumbass coworker not notice something that inhuman? You're sat down, and your hands pull out your phone. It'd only been about fifteen minutes since you last remember checking, though it felt like hours, and a text from your closest friend had come through. A simple good morning, but it's enough to make you want to cry, even if you know no tears are coming. You try with all your might to tell them what's happening, to call someone to get you, do anything, at least confirm that this is reality, but you already knew it wouldn't work. You just return their greeting and leave.
You're taken out of the bathroom, your legs feel like they're swinging around wildly, like each step could never hit the floor. Despite it, you never stumble. More people are coming in, you try to turn your head to all of them, maybe one of them will finally notice something is wrong. None do. You feel a clawed hand dig into your back and hold your spine in a death grip, trying to drag you to the floor. You cry out inside, but your body couldn't care, and neither does anyone around you.
Your hands keep working, your legs get you from place to place, your mouth seems to say just the right things to make everyone happy. Everything is normal, at least to the world around you. You've given up on trying to control yourself, only screaming now. Screaming and hoping a single one could get through. Even if it means some random customer goes to management about you yelling in their face when they asked where the donut bags were, none of it mattered to you. The real you. All you wanted was escape, to be sent home so you could get a grip. Eventually, even this was too exhausting, and you surrender to whatever took control. You don't care about the claws in your back. You don't care about the sharp vines that had grown from your legs to your throat over the course of what felt like days.
You feel even more of your senses fading. Your hands are no longer attached to your arms as far as you can tell, your vision is darkened and blurred to a single pin point, the words spoken to you meant less than nothing, mere reminders of a world that couldn't care if you were even you anymore. In vain, you whisper one more prayer for mercy, but you can't feel the eyes or God anymore.
Your life was just a haze of darkness and nonsense, no sight or sound was real, and neither were you. All you could do was sit in silence in your own body, and think on every mistake you'd made through your entire life, wondering which was the one that earned you this damnation, and what you could still do to try to atone. Then you begin to wonder if you should even be allowed to return, if it was worth it, if it'd change anything at all. What was the difference if everyone else was happy? Maybe whatever was piloting your flesh would do a better job than you had.
Blinding light and crippling pain would over you in a tidal wave of sensation. You take a deep breath, your lungs swelling three sizes before a throat shredding cough rips through you, and your arm reflexively covers your mouth. Your first act of autonomy after a time you couldn't possibly know is to look into your elbow. A glistening web of dark red mucus was all over your work jacket. Your entire body trembled, your legs threatened to give out from under you. The first intelligible words hit your ears, that same coworker finally asking if you're okay. You open your mouth to tell him about the nightmare you've endured.
"I'm fine, just a bit sick."