To Rebuild A Man (2)

“Traitor?” My mouth stumbled and fell over the word like Dick Van Dyke over an ottoman. My mind raced nowhere at a million miles an hour, desperately searching for any valid register in my brain associated with identity, with self.

File not found.

I was suddenly aware that I was throwing up and managed to turn my head in time to save the man’s suit. “It’s an intriguing feeling, isn’t it, Mr. Pritchard? Looking with such intent, with such need for an answer.”

“Fuck you,” I spat.

The man chuckled. “Skipping denial and going straight to anger, eh, Mr. Pritchard? I like your style. We’ll be at acceptance before you know it.” I lunged at him, my arms outstretched, my hands longing to crush his trachea and snap his neck.

The next thing I knew I was on the ground, the remnants of 50,000 volts coursing through my veins. He stood over me, taser in hand. “Let’s hope, for your sake Mr. Pritchard, that you reach bargaining as quickly as you arrived at anger. Patience is not one of my finer qualities.”

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