Orange Sections

By Kennedy Mills

Twenty-eight hours later, and plans are thrown away.

Medical interventions are necessary. Sign on the dotted line; there is no time. Panic sets in.

Hastily transported into a cold, fluorescent room.

Naked body crucified to the bed. Numb from the chest down.

Loving touches are lost; fear is taking over. This is not what was wanted; this room is too sterile.

Slice.

Slice.

Suction.

Suction.

A fresh new breath delivers a temporary feeling of happiness.

Painfully, no first embrace. Uncontrollable shaking ensues. Did you even come out of me?

I feel nothing.

A few hours later, breakfast is served—orange sections.