Fred Aiken Writing

My sister’s eyes are laser-trained on my left arm with a rusted axe hovering above her head. I’m laying on my tropical felt futon in a premium Demerol-Red-Label haze feeling like a philosophical centipede swimming in green Jell-O. 

“I’m having doubts,” she says. 

“And I’m not. Do it!” 

My eyes roll into the back of my head, and I don’t notice her sweating apprehension. She trembles and her vision goes blurry. I show her prints about the cybernetic arm to allay her. By cutting off a part of me, I tell her, I’ll be able to do so much more.