Page 9 of Emerald

I don’t want to think about it, though. “No. No. Remember what’s happening. Don’t let it slip,” I tell myself.

Alright. What has happened?

“Bug aliens,” I remind myself.

Eerily enough, I was quick to accept the fact that I have been kidnapped by aliens because what else could they be? Giant talking bugs that seem to have a bad case of indiscriminate grabbing of parts that have no business being grabbed without permission… yes, aliens.

Traumatizing, but clear enough to comprehend, and luckily their limbs are easy to snap so there is an outlet for my rage.

The next shock point was watching in numb horror as I was partly sedated and subsequently operated on to have my body modified to be as aesthetically pleasing as an oversexualized MAPPA-drawn anime character. Drawn specifically to fit the tastes of no-life pop culture addicts who spend more time digestingKuroinuthan should be legal.

I grab my newly shorn dark-brown hair, yanking it to center myself.

“Not legal,” I hiss out.

Again, mind rending, albeit less frightful and more existential, but still, fairly easy to comprehend and come to terms with. Even when they keep changing their minds and altering me again.

Which brings me to the recent routine I've more or less been subject to over the past couple of… days? Weeks?

I can’t believe I lost count. I should have that number, but I don’t. It makes me feel unmoored.

It’s hard to keep track of time when all you sleep and wake up to is the sight of acerbic lights that are every bit as invasive as the short, bug-like fuckers that brought me here in the first place.

The realization that I hadn't been the only one to be taken did help dull the panic of having to process everything in the brightly lit gray central hallway they allow us to stretch our legs in every now and then. Call it what you will, but there is something about collective misery that just makes the process all the more bearable.

I'd take my own thoughts on the subject with a pinch of salt though, I am no therapist or psychologist, despite the sheer volume of amateurish self-taught information I have on the topic.

Where am I going with this?

“Abduction,” I remind myself.

Right after the wholly nonconsensual body modification that we had been put through, it became apparent that not everyone's body reacted to the change positively.

By “everyone” I simply mean just me. My luck tends to be shitty that way.

Unlike the others, I had to go under the knife again and again. The first time I damn near went into anaphylactic shock barely a few hours after the sedatives wore off, and the second time I had to deal with frequent blackouts that had everything going dark when I was in the middle of something. By “something” I mean pulling books from memory or letting my imagination run freer than I would usually let it. And the next time I regained consciousness, I would be in a situation that was equal parts karmic as it was painful.

“Aliens,” I say, deciding the word tastes bitter and pungent. “Blood,” I mutter, deciding the word tastes sweet.

Revenge is sweet, they say.

The first time I blacked out, I woke up with a squad of the same bug-like aliens beating down on my stiff body as I throttled the last vestiges of life out of one of their own. The sod was already dead, its chitin-covered body having faded to a duller, pallid, purplish tone as its disgusting barbed tongue lolled out of the side of its stupid mouth on its stupid face.

The emotions I felt at that moment rapidly cycled from morbid curiosity, to surprise, to realization, to mild disgust from its fetid death rattle before settling on vicious glee at the realization of what I had just done.

I loved it.

I’ve hit plenty of people in my life, but I always held back. If I had known killing felt this good…

“Loved it. Loved it,” I repeat.

I only registered the assault my body was going through shortly after that epiphany, and the few minutes I spent curled into a ball as they capitalized on my sudden porousness to pain to beat me within what I was sure was a millimeter of my life.

They didn't kill me, though, and I’m not sure why. They must not place much value on their individual lives. Maybe it’s a queen and drone situation?

Ants. Bees. Alien bugs.

“Bugs. Bugs…” I trail off with a long susurration.

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