The Transmutation

DISCLAIMER:

These methods should not be attempted by anyone under any conditions. This is a work of fiction. All results are wholly fabricated and speculative. Great psychological harm could come from attempting such strategies.

Trigger warning: this short story contains some disturbing and violent scenes. Reader discretion is advised.

The clank of a metal tool being placed amongst its dozen bedfellows on the tray next to the platform he lay on rang through the large, hollow chamber, as quiet chatter and soft-spoken conversations filled the background. A large, menacing shape moved away from him slightly, allowing a glaring amber light to pierce his head for a moment. His watery gaze tracked the light, seeing that it was affixed to the head of the looming figure.

He lay in an ancient operating theater, and his chest was rent asunder. The surgeon was performing open heart surgery. It was the only thing his mind could imagine that fit the bewildering scenario. He could feel his ribs, cracked and spread out as wings from his abdomen. Terror knifed through the core of his being, laying open those places never sought, where shadows boiled and spit, whispering secrets never uttered. He was fully conscious, which was not good since he wished nothing more than to escape this hellish scene. A sense of impending disaster filled his mind as his body readied itself for the reckless abandonment of the operating table.

Of its own volition, his head whipped to the side, his sight picking out a figure that sat slouched on the lower deck, a familiar visage staring back at him. An old 'friend,' the betrayer of his marriage. Memory filled the vessel of his being, a bitter draft, this man in bed with his beloved wife, not so long ago. Hatred bloomed inside the crucible of his being as a cloud of blood in wine. A hiss escaped his lips, and the man stood in response, a look of weary consternation coloring his features. He closed the intervening space, rapidly stepping down the last few stairs, raising a hand at the surgeon who sat ready to object to this invasion of his domain. Upon recognition, the doctor grinned, and his hand clasped a new tool, a hideous contraption that resembled an overly large nutcracker. With his other hand, he gestured approval to the new figure drawing near.

Matt grinned back, his boyish features shifting with ease to the feigned emotion. A slight tremble marred his performance as his eyes glanced back down at the central character of the show.

The scattered crowd in the gloom-filled pews quieted, witnessing this new tableau play out before them, and a sense of eagerness grew in the air, a metaphysical quickening in the atmosphere above them.

Somehow, John was aware of all this: the surgeon's gleaming, menacing tool, the quieting crowd, the predatory tension in the air, Matt's approach, and throughout all of it was a profound sense of vulnerability, of complete helplessness in the face of utter annihilation, his naked, broken body lying small and powerless beneath the ministering hands of the immense Surgeon, above whose masked face wings creaked and flexed, sending a chill waft of fetid air down upon the smaller figures before him.

The experience of heightened awareness dissolved with the words that came from Matt's lips:

"Oh, how I have hated you, and I wish you to know I take great pleasure in seeing you now, in this pathetic state you're in."

The words pierced him as the blades of the Surgeon had moments before he gained this horrid consciousness, slicing through the sinews of his heart, releasing copious amounts of blood, and tears burst from his eyes, droplets scattering across the table beneath him. Sweat instantaneously beaded from every pore of his skin, as a mysterious heat spread through his body, an ethereal blaze that seared him from within.

What had he done to deserve such agony, what harm had he done to warrant such hellish punishment? He yearned to scream such questions, to somehow stop this from happening, but it was all too late. His body shriveled as all the fluids seeped from him, as his bladder emptied, as he eliminated all the viscous contents of his body upon the once sterile metal table where he lay. Humiliation radiated through his soul as he heard laughter from those watching, as he gazed into Matt's eyes, his old friend...who was sobbing, shaking with grief even as he stood transfixed by the gruesome scene before him.

The moment came as the Surgeon clamped the strange tool around him, and as the vise tightened, he felt his bones first bend then shatter under the pressure exerted by the immense strength embodied in those terrible hands. Size and proportion had no claim on the bizarre physics of this nightmare reality. There was no hope of escape, only death, and he welcomed it, silently cried out for it to come, the seconds stretching out into eternity as his body was reduced to a ruin of splintered bones, skin splitting and tearing in his last death throes within the cold, cruel grip of the steel teeth.

Finally, oblivion came to him, a release from the unbearable pain he had suffered.

Shortly after dawn, Luke awoke. The night's events were still present in his mind, humming with quiet intensity.

He was becoming inured to these experiences, apparently. This had not been his first session. In fact, he had been subjected to so many he had lost count.

He leapt nimbly out of bed, barely glancing at the cart loaded with the medical equipment they used for their sessions, full of a youthful vigor he hadn't experienced in decades. Grabbing an apple out of the fruit bowl that stood on his nightstand, he lustily sank his teeth into the light green flesh, pulling the orb away with a huge chunk left in his mouth, juices flowing down his chin as the tart flavor filled his senses. He stood savoring the simple experience, his mind racing with the thoughts of what he would do with his day, wiping the juice away with the back of his hand.

First, he would do his usual routine of calisthenics out in the facility's gardens, areas designated for such activities, where he was sure to see Ruth, a fellow patient he had been secretly attracted to for weeks but had never approached, and he decided today was the day he would do so....and that was when the plans for the Presidential library he had been working on for over nine months completed themselves in his mind, a spontaneous download from a higher dimension.

Swallowing, he smacked his lips, then sat down suddenly on the edge of his bed, grabbing the little black book he always kept close for this purpose. After furiously scribbling down his thoughts and sketching out several designs, he paused, considering the morning's events so far.

"I think I just might be better now."

He said it aloud, to relish the thought. That had been the promise when he had entered this facility, what the staff claimed they could achieve given full authority and adequate time to run their programs on him. He flipped back through the pages of his journal, to the page where he had noted his thoughts just before he agreed to be treated here.

At this point, I am willing to try anything to escape the hell I am living in.

He could only vaguely remember what that hell was like, and he was grateful for it.

For the first time in several months, he dared let his mind explore the last nine months of his life.

Just two weeks after he had won the contract on building the newest Presidential library, what was to be a crowning achievement in his long and illustrious career as a world-renowned architect, his 13 year old daughter, his only child, had died of a drug overdose.

He and his wife were utterly devastated by their loss. Their marriage had already been on the brink of failure, and their daughter's death turned out to be the impetus for his wife to finally file for divorce. Within two months of his greatest career achievement, he had lost his entire family.

He then proceeded to lose his mind.

He had a family history of mental illness, but he had turned out to be the lucky one who seemed to dodge the bullet of the family curse. In fact, he thrived creatively, while also having a great head for business. Early in his career he had launched his own firm, and against all odds had succeeded in landing contracts over more well-established firms in a very tradition-oriented industry by getting every job he won done better-as well as at lower prices-than his competitors.

That all ended seven months ago. His descent into madness had been quick and terrifyingly complete. He had loved his daughter dearly, and dealing with the loss alone turned out to be a deadly recipe for his mental health. The prognosis was bleak.

After a month in the hospital and being released only after being prescribed a hateful cocktail of psychiatric drugs that left him loopy and entirely dysfunctional, he was at risk of losing control of his firm, as well as the prestigious Presidential library contract. A contractual clause bearing on periods of downtime saved his position, but only for a period of six months. Currently, he was well over the end of the contractual allowance, but a close friend who had a decisive vote in the deal had been watching his progress in the program closely and had allowed him an extension to complete his healing process.

The place was named The Alchemical Institute. After finding the company googling for exotic therapies, he decided to take the plunge. As a boy, he'd been fascinated by all things mystical. He had a long running habit of reading Jung's works, who had delved into spiritual alchemy later in his career. This firm put spiritual alchemy into practice digitally, where patients experienced psychological death in order to be reborn, by use of virtual reality generated by a patented neural interface that utilized advanced AI algorithms that individually wrote and administered each application of the program. He had volunteered for a new approach the firm was experimenting with where psilocybin was also used to enhance the patient's experience. He was one of the first patients to come so far through the program, and all the staff members lauded his fantastic progress as a shining example of what was possible using their cutting edge techniques.

Snapping out of his reverie, he took stock of his present state of mind, amazed at how well he was feeling after thinking of the loss of his daughter. There was pain, certainly, but none of the accompanying delusions he once would have been subjected to. Silently, he wept tears of profound joy at his healing. He was immensely grateful.

He decided then and there that he would donate $20,000 to the Alchemical Institute's R&D department, making the decision to write the check out this very day.

It would be the first of many he would write.