[ WP ] You get a deep cut for the first time in your life , instead of bone or muscle , you see wires .

This is how it plays out. 
 
 If you ’ ve ever lost your grip on a knife and ended up in the emergency room then you ’ ll know where this is going, searing pain followed by a sudden drop in blood pressure and the horrific realisation that you ’ re going to pass out, stupidly, like a fucking rag doll with no control, dropping flat on your pale blood drained face in front of a bunch of idiots, who, as you ’ re falling, you can see are already snapping pictures and videos with their phones. As you fall, in your head you ’ re falling forever, and gracefully like a ballerina, you ’ re worried about how this will look, not the important stuff like how your head will most likely smash against the grimy tile and cause another deep gash, but stuff like how you forgot to comb your hair this morning and the fact you ’ re not wearing any underwear. Is that a news crew just off to the right? Fuck. Just your luck. The bastards will leap on this like a pack of starving kittens. You ’ ll make the evening report, will probably make front page in tomorrow morning ’ s edition, you ’ ll be famous for all the wrong reasons by the time the junior doctor has nervously stitched you up and ploughed you with cheap painkillers. Random people will ask for photographs. Even worse, they ’ ll ask for selfies. Z-list celebrities will want to conduct mind numbing interviews, one after another, one after another. You ’ ll be the laughing stock of social media. 
 
 All of this because you had a lapse in concentration. A greasy hand that slipped on the handle of a sharp knife as you slathered your fourth sandwich with ketchup. You could have left it at two. But you had to be greedy and have two more. Therein lies the problem. Greed. Gluttony. This is what caused you to slice your hand open. This is what caused this most embarrassing of situations. A million stupid regrets flit through your head just before it hits the tile. 
 
 None of this transpires though. When you come to, the crowd have backed away and have pocketed their devices. Is it the blood? It must be the amount of blood forcing them into a slow retreat. Maybe you ’ ll get out of this unscathed with your reputation intact. They are shocked by your injuries, a man ’ s injuries, of which you are brave enough to have survived. This might even be heroic. The president will be called upon to pin a medal on your shirt. You will wear it with honour and pride and never take it off. Someone will make t-shirts with your face printed large on the front and emblazoned with the slogan “ I WILL SURVIVE ”. And yet still they back away. You notice a small girl at the front. Her eyes are wide and her hand is raised to her mouth. This must be the first time she has seen such gruesome scenes. You will remember her face forever. 
 
 Your senses are returning to you slowly. Noise unscrambles and forms distinct words and you can feel life and strength returning to your limbs. With a great effort you push yourself up on to your good hand. As you do, the crowd reels back in terror, people are audibly gasping and covering their children ’ s eyes. Some have started to run away. You struggle to understand. It ’ s just a deep cut. Surely it can ’ t be that bad. Where are the paramedics? It ’ s just a fucking flesh wound. You turn to look at your limp soggy hand to your left but just before your eyes have time to focus on that mess, a group of mall security guards surge through the mob with determined faces and raised weapons. You ’ re sure you are still passed out, this is some crazy hallucination playing out in your oxygen deprived brain, but the guards bark orders for everyone to clear the area before you can convince yourself. The mob rush away, stumbling over tables and chairs and heading for the nearest exits. This is getting surreal. 
 
 The closest guard is pointing and shouting at you. Saliva is spitting out of his mouth and his eyes are wild with concern. The guard to his left is on a radio frantically trying to put into words what he is seeing. He keeps shaking his head and disagreeing with whoever is on the other end of the line. A third guard has his weapon focused right between your eyes. This guy scares the shit out of you, but you can notice if you focus a bit more that his seemingly assured grip on his weapon is trembling ever so slightly. These guys are scared of something. The first guard takes a tentative step closer and orders you to turn on your stomach and put your “ fucking arms behind your back ”. You try to reason with him, tell him it ’ s just a cut, you just had an accident at the sandwich stall, but he raises his weapon and shouts again. This time his spit is propelled toward your face and as it does you swivel your head to the left in an attempt to dodge it. You finally see your damaged hand. 
 
 Your left hand is covered in blood. That bit is obvious. You expected this. You prepped for the shock and the sudden drain of life upon realising you had lost litres, no, gallons of liquid. But that ’ s not what shocks you. What shocks you is the electrical wire dangling from your wrist. Not just one, but a whole tangled mess of wires spilling from your hand. A blue pulsing liquid is coursing through each wire and small sparks are jumping from one wire to the next. Each one is writhing about like a sad gathering of worms. Like they are independent and real and alive and stupid. You shoot a terrible look back to the approaching guard. 
 
 This is when you properly pass out. 
 
 And then you wake in a large room. A doctor is sitting by your side, but you can see your reflection on his clothing so you assume you are behind a protective screen. Many armed men surround the perimeter of the room. 
 
 The doctor presses a button on the side of the enclosure. He tells you he ’ s happy to see you again. That it ’ s been a long, and he stresses the word “ long ”, time since anyone has seen you. He tells you they thought you were dead. That you were lost. That they had given up hope. That they sent others after you, a rescue mission to try bring you back. He waits for your response and twirls a ballpoint pen in his fingers, nervously. You have a sudden urge to commit violence on these men. Where did that come from? You want to reach through the glass and grab this guy by the throat and smash his head against the wall. What? What are these thoughts? These men mean you harm but you do not know why. 
 
 You wish you were back at the sandwich stall, not cutting yourself and not passing out. 
 
 You wish you were a man. 
 
 At that moment, something clicks in your head and the room goes dark. 
 
 Madness ensues… 

