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 flame 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.

04/07/2025

The man hooks a chair with his foot behind him, and kicks it forth, sitting down in a grand quick motion. The light quietened down, muffling its own buzzing as its rays bounced off the cold metal counters a bit more warily.

"This", he starts, "is another form of surgery. It takes only a pair of old eyes and a sharp blade to see whats inside a person. But to see whats inside a mind- that takes the careful incisions of conversation. A far more risky procedure- and not without side effects. I've seen just enough of you to know your the type to have questions, but not to ask. So I'll frame it in a game- prime that tribalism innate in our prefrontal cortexes, aye?" He gave a little chuckle. You don't think this man is very funny.

"Seven questions, miss. That's all you get. Take your time though- I want your best game."

He cracks a sly little smile, like he's crafted a devious little riddle he's confident I won't solve. That's not what's happening at all though, you think. There's no tricks. This man is not a man, in the sense he would not trick you. He is, however, correct. The prospect of knowledge has been made alot easier to leap to with a nice optimisation problem to bridge the grap. It's a damaged and drenched bridge for sure, but it's something to walk on.

Seven is a good amount though. 3 sets of two, and a final. 5 big ones and two for the road. You'll start with you, then zoom out. "Okay," you say. "Why did you put me back together?"

"Oh, miss," he breaks his smile,"I did no such thing, I'm afraid. I've put your body back together, but that's like laying the concrete foundation an' taking credit for the skyscraper. But, er, that's no proper answer, is it? I've alot of people that have asked me the same thing, and I forget my answer every time. Probably because I don't have one..." he pauses for a bit, and strokes his chin.

"I don't like seeing folks unwhole. That's my answer. It's not right. The machine has to be working for the bulb to turn on, you know?"

"So, you heal the disabled too? If a man comes in with a lost leg, you'd grow it back?"

"Ahh, miss!", he waves his hands out in front of him, like you've made a mistake. "That's two questions! No need for that. But, er, well that depends. If the man lost his leg in death, then yeah, I'd root around for a replacement. The afterlife isn't a place to be sad about how you've died- not this one, at least. But if the man's lost it in life, well that's how his body is. I don't change people- that's not my department." You take it back- this man is certainly a man. He's just like, a nice one you guess.

"Now love, you've got four more questions. Don't go wasting them. Remember, this isn't a conversation, it's a game, and I'm the screen, yeah? Get me to say as much as you can that'll help you." This premise is starting to feel a bit silly. Is the game framing really necessary?. Wait, actually, why don't you

"Is this game framing really necessary?" you ask.

"Well, I'm doing it for you." he responds. "Want me to stop?"

"No," you snap back. You like it, for some reason. Three more questions, though. It's time to lock in. After thinking for a little bit, you ask:

"How is the afterlife structured?" That's a good one, for sure. Fuck yeah. You are going to get a good grade.

"Oh, now that's a good one, for sure. The afterlife and life aren't so different. You end up where the river brings you. No choice in the matter- just enjoy the water. But there are a finite number of pools that it flows into- and I've the (usually unfortunate) bump with another every couple decades. It's not nice out there. Here it's miserable, but it's too quiet for tragedy. There's just the rain and the roofs, but it's storming somewhere else.

"So, there's a hell?"

"Heh, not in the sense you mean! I imagine, nah I hope, there's a place where the politicans go. Where the people who don't look into mirrors for the fear of their own nasty features go, and all the actions they took for themselves actually come back to them. Oh it's a sordid little dream- but it's a therapeutic one. Gotta thank the Lady for that."

You, trans woman that you are, hate politicans by default.

...you're sort of standard aren't you? I mean, it was nice to imagine that you were above average, but the average person thinks that too. You like pumpkin spice lattes in the autumn, cinnamon hot chocolate in the winter and doom-inspired FPS shooters year round. You're 5'6 and your ex girlfriend used to put a leash on you. This isn't exactly new- and this old man isn't exactly young. That's why he's made it a game- he doesn't like you and wants to make it fun. There's no beating hearts in the afterlife either. I suppose it's okay to use him too, then.

"Okay luv, one more question. Make it count."

Please, please say yes to this.

"Can you please give me boobs, doctor?" you sputter out.

He cracks a big smile like he's posing for a photograph. Through crunched smiling muscles, he says, "Oh definitely miss. We can work something like that out."

chapter four: the door