Off Hand Red Strands

I feel sick. The smell of cinnamon and vomit float through this clean white room like an invisible fog. My legs feel as though they are on fire, no that is not correct. The nerves in my legs feel as though they are slowly being pulled out through my clammy skin. Who is God and where is he?

On my back I lay, screaming without sound or facial movement. I can hear them now, close and immune to all sympathy I attempt to receive. What if they were to let me up? It is not as though I could just run for there is no where I could go. As of right now I would rather die then endure another hour of this strange visit.

They come into my view, eyes black as I’m sure their souls are. Massive gray skulls bend at the small neck that should in no way hold these tear dropped balls to their thin frail bodies. Are they doctors? I honestly do not believe the operation they are about to perform would be done at any normal medical facility I have ever been too. Where is God? Have I asked this before?

I hear buzzing like a very small chainsaw. They remove parts of me that I could not even identify. I have come to realize the truth. They are God.