9.81 * 10^-4 Joules

26/05/2025

chapter one: the fall

When standing at the edge of the world, it's hard to think about anything other than how you are standing at the edge of the world. It's even harder to pull your eyes off what is beyond that sharp edge; and look down at where you're placing your feet. That's why its so easy to fall off- it feels so good to not stand on anything. To fall, after all that time walking.

For Emily, this is what she was feeling. She wasn't an adventurer, and she hadn't come seeking the edge, but through many steps taken in the darkness, she had arrived here anyway. Currently, she is looking where here body might fall. Away from the highway, at this time of day, no families or children. It was nice, she thought, and for just one second, she peels her gaze away from where she'd be descending, and casts her eyes over the city skyline drawn out for her.

The clouds crowned the sky, a sleeping king ruling from on high. The sun had given it's all, but it had to rest, and all of humanity thought it best to use this time too. Emily's eyes tracked over the infinite amber gradient, seeing it dissolve into the darkness, then relight on the other side of her head. With all the lights off, you can see the stars, and for the love she held for this world, merged with the sinking, swelling desire she had to leave it all behind, she hoped that there were little people on those stars a billion lightyears away, who wanted to kill themselves too.

A bird cries. The lights hum. Two, no, three cars get into an accident a thousand miles away. Secretly, cities are alive, and we're all little cells. Somewhere, it must have a brain, Emily thinks, and she hopes after she's buried, the amoeba eat it alive. Like it ate her alive. Like the maggots writhing in her skeleton are eating her right now, six feet under a tombstone that says the wrong first name with the right last name.

Sorry world, I can't have you, and you can't have me. Our love is forbidden, but I'm falling for you anyway. I like the way your wind cuts me, and how I shake a little in the cold, and how I can't seem to get warm. Oh, it's in first person now. Of course it is. I'm the only one who's alive.

chapter two: the surgery

28/05/2025

I was on the table when I woke up, feeling suspiciously bloodless. Looming over me, made a shadow by the obscured light, was a man (judging by his silhouette and actions). His rough hands were wet, and the cuffs of his doctors coat were soaked, a fact I knew from the cold fabric brushing my skin every time he made an incision. Yes, his blade was gliding through me, cutting me open to get to the good parts. But he wasn't wearing gloves, and his hands weren't wet with blood (as one should expect), but some other, dirtier liquid.

"What are you doing?" I said, breaking the silence he was obviously used to.

The scalpel shook a bit as a small jolt rose through his body, from foot to head. Then he got a hold of himself, and seemed to laugh a little bit. "Most don't wake so soon, friend."

He quickly pulled his scalpel out my lower intestine, though the gore I hoped to see didn't happen. The blade simply went out of me. I don't even know if I was ever being cut, actually. He quickly tilted the light above the both of us, illuminating his old face. It looked as if that lamp was constantly singing him, since his face was covered in slimy burn marks in all the places the light touched. As I admired his complexion, he smiled a big crooked smile that scrunched his features quite compactly. His wrinkles grew up like a tree off of one side of his face, then curled back into its own roots to round out his circle of a head. For some reason though, he gave me the strangest desire to run my fingers between the folds... twirl his large, water-drop shaped moustache, even pluck a hair from it and thank him for the gift.

"I'm nearly done putting you all back together," he said cheerfully.

Back together?

Oh right. You killed yourself. You weak, coward fuck.

"I'm the surgeon. I make sure bodies are in their right state before I send them off to the Lady. I've been doing this for a very long time, miss, and I'll say you're one of the more gnarled victims of falling I've seen. Must have nice, tall buildings in your time, yes?"

Not tall enough. You're still talking. Maybe there's a spire that pierces the heavens and kills the soul when you jump off it. That'd be worth living for. You don't say that, obviously.

"Mhm."

You look down at your body. Now you've woken up a little, it's easier to see all the stitches in your hips and thighs. They form little lines that shoot through your entire body, twisting over the torso (a wide circle around your stomach) and up the neck, coming up to your cranium where they condense and end. This is good, you think. All you can hope for now are the scars to show for it, and all the scars you've yet to make. Mr Surgeon talks a bit more.

"Impaled on a lamp post, you were. Showered blood and powdered bones like rain. A kid even held his tongue out, thinking your marrow was snow. Normal bones shouldn't turn to powder of course, and from the in-depth look I've got at your skeleton, it seems you have some sort of osteopenia. Not to worry friend, that sort of weakness won't last while I'm on the job."

He gave an inviting laugh, as if this was a piece of good news I was expecting to hear. But I was stuck on his other words, of the gore that my body turned into. This should stir emotion in me, you think. Maybe he cut my heart out. You shut your eyes, to hear everything. The doctor fidgets with his toys and tools as his breath finishes supplying the uncompensated laughter. Outside, beyond the door on the other side of the room probably, water is running smoothly. It's texture is somewhere between a babbling river stream and laminar flow. Outside the world, inside the you, you listen closer. There's a pulse. And that's when you feel it, everything, everything all at once. Guilt, pain, regret, sadness, happiness, anger, everything one expects and rejects when dying on purpose. You shoot up forcefully, nearly headbutting the old man, who dodges swiftly. There's a bomb inside your chest, and it's ticking 120 times per minute. It feels like the bomb is on fire, and it's only making it stronger, making everything burn better, with a malevolent fire that pumps its own gasoline and can grab innocent strangers to immolate slowly. You need to leave- no, you need to die, because the afterlife has you in it, and that is as bad as it can possibly get. With the energy of a moral man, your arm snaps and slams on the medical tray to grab whatever can cut skin. Which is probably everything, you think, stupidly. Nothing is cutting you. Your beating your head with the tray now. The bangs hurt like massages, and you can't deal with this, you can't fucking-

"I can help you kill yourself," the surgeon said.

I snapped back to reality.

"What?", I said, as if offended.

"If that's what you want, of course. But I would really like to fix you up and have you sent to the Lady first. She has a way with words I think a soul like you would enjoy. Please, take a seat."

Well, you do like ladies. And this man has a disarming, low voice. It's like the hum of the highway outside the window. Rain on the roof. The lights off after a bright day. He's got you, I'm afraid, so you sit down. The chair has been waiting for you.

chapter three: please give me boobs, doctor.