Before my eyes are open I'm cold. My eyes grow back in my grandparents' bathroom, a long-extinct species of sepia and bygone conveyance. The tub is filled with ice. And the ice is filled with me. I look at my gut through the crystalline cubes, a wide gleaming splotch of pixilated scarlet. I'm not confused anymore, but the ice has numbed me to the chill snaking through me. I lift my head. He towers over me; stentorian, victorious. His arms across his chest, he holds a scalpel. Crimson rivulets run down the metal and over his fist.
No, I think. No. Not me. Not him.
Then he laughs and says, "I'm just kidding."
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