In frustration, he sewed my mouth shut because duct tape failed to muffle my screams. This was his solution to get me to behave in silence.

What was it he said before putting me under? He said he would do whatever he wanted to me when I woke up and I would never be able to scream.

Then he plunged the syringe into my forearm. I don’t recall falling asleep, but I guess I succumbed in the end.

I’m unsure when I next woke. Unluckily for me, it was right in time to witness a needle hovering inches from my face. It glinted menacingly under the fluorescent basement lights flickering above.

After sparing a cursory glance my way to note I was wide awake, he continued his clinical work unfazed. He firmly held my puckered lips in place with a pair of forceps, then let the needle steadily sink in, puncture, and draw blood, disappearing inside flesh then reappearing on the other side.

I would’ve thrashed about on that stiff bed, but whatever he drugged me with rendered me paralyzed, though he hadn’t bothered to administer enough anesthetic. My lucid eyes were sharp with awareness, and I knew the sicko wanted me to be awake for this part of his demented surgery.

Time towed my body along its sluggish currents until finally, perhaps an hour later, he laid aside his bloodied medical gloves and tools onto the tray, done with my operation. But he still wasn’t done with me. He began inching his sweaty fingers towards my crimson-soaked blouse—began unbuttoning.

It was all I could do to frailly whisper No.

He hesitated, and I wondered if he’d heard me.

Shrugging, he resumed his action, but not before I more desperately shouted, No! Please.

That’s when his face perked up, incredulous. Unmistakably, he heard me broadcasting my thoughts loud and clear. He cocked his head and grinned with queer amusement, bewildered at how it was possible.

Before he flinched or laid another finger on me, one of his eyes bulged then slickly popped out of its socket, dangling by its optic nerve, followed by the second eyeball detaching from its place. He scrambled to cup the falling orbs in his fumbling hands. I heard it audible to me then, a strange, banshee-like screech that seemed to resonate from the depths of his very skull.

He gritted his teeth and cradled his vibrating head as hairline fractures began snaking across his cranium before his skull abruptly tore open in a violent burst to spray my clothing, bed, and surrounding room with a gory shower of red. The unearthly screech stopped at once, the room fell silent, and the man’s body toppled to the cracked basement floor.

Even under my stitches, I managed to twist my lips into a malformed smile.

He deluded himself into thinking he could steal my voice. He could stitch my mouth shut all he wanted, but he would never take away my scream.