by Paul Liadis
“Will it always feel this odd?” said Douglas, opening his eyes.
“No,” answered Dr. Grim. “You’re body will adapt.”
“But it feels so cold,” said Douglas, touching his face.
“Steel,” said Dr. Grim.
“How about all the dials and numbers? “Will I always…”
“You'll get used to it,” interrupted Dr. Grim. “Everything you need is in the packet the nurse gave you. My advice is to wait a few hours before looking in the mirror. We don't need you back here with a heart attack.”
“Is it that bad?” asked Douglas, peeking at the shape his shadow cast on the floor.
“Not everyone can afford the best parts, son” said Dr. Grim, walking toward the door.
“Sometimes we have to improvise. “
Douglas' shoulders dropped. “What happened, Doc?” he whispered.
“All in the packet,” said the doctor, closing the door behind him.
His mind spinning, Douglas sat alone with his uncertainty. How had he died? Who had paid for the procedure? And why couldn't feel his lips move when he talked?
Douglas opened the envelope with a shaking index finger and removed a thin pamphlet, hoping for answers. Staring back at him was the title: “Your New Head: The First Twenty-Four Hours”.
Laughing, Douglas tossed the packet in the bin marked Biohazard. He would find his answers where all great thinkers do, not in some book, but at the bottom of an icy glass. He was thirsty and his problems could wait. Now, if he could just locate his mouth....