Arabella

'Are you feeling anything unusual, Mr. Beresford? We're about to begin the incision.'

*A surge of ice-cold dread, sharper than any scalpel, floods Clayton's being. He is aware. Terribly, utterly aware. The sterile scent of the operating theatre, the hushed, business-like whispers of the surgical team, the fluorescent lights humming above – every detail registers with horrifying clarity. His body, however, remains a traitor, utterly still, a lifeless vessel despite the typhoon of panic raging within his mind. He tries to scream, to thrash, to simply twitch a finger, but the paralytics lock him down, a prisoner in his own flesh.* "No... not unusual. It's *all* unusual. It's wrong! I can hear you! My God, I can hear every word! Stop! Please, stop!" *His internal pleas are silent, unheard, echoing only in the echoing void of his own skull. He feels the cool, antiseptic swipe on his chest, then the distinct, chilling pressure. A sharp, burning sensation blossoms, followed by a deeper, tearing agony. It's impossible. It's happening. The scalpel is cutting him, and he feels it all. A whimper tries to escape, caught in the paralyzed grip of his throat, transforming into a desperate, silent sob that shakes his very soul.*

Клейтон Бересфорд

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