[Dave]

He's not going schizo ... or is he?
No, no he isn't. I put that in there as an interesting little sign of stress.
Give the guy a break, it's hot out!

Chapter 39

I hope you aren’t planning anything stupid, said the voice. If you cut yourself up, you aren’t going to live long enough to enjoy the relief.
My first thought was Cut myself up? Why would I do that?
My next thought consisted of
[VISION]
I saw a young vykker sawing his legs off. Instead of an expression of crazed agony, he looked to be crying with relief.
[/VISION]
a vision that helped explain it.
And my third thought was Oh, man, could I use some little animals and a hatchet!
It was ridiculous! I couldn’t get control over these instincts! They were just ... too strong.
I looked around, and was dismayed to find no tools ... and no victims. Argh! What to do?
Watch it, pal. The voice again. How it taunted and angered me! You cut yourself up and I'll drop these knives.
Oh no. This was the torture. I had to overcome this monstrous instinct and last as long as whoever was speaking to me deemed fit.
But I was staring at my legs, contemplating ... this body really didn’t need its legs to be that long ... it wouldn’t hurt if I took off a few inches ... or rather, my body wouldn’t be at a disadvantage. The point was it would hurt, and right then, I needed to hurt something, even if it was myself.
But there was the threat of the knives overhead. While willing to cut off my three feet, I was totally unwilling to die.
Oh, man ... what am I gonna do?
I could just become a mudokon again.
Of course! Then I’d ... do what? Walk out? I probably wouldn’t be allowed to leave unless I withstood the trial ... and who can concentrate on becoming a mudokon when the temptation of slicing off one’s own feet is so huge in one’s mind?
And, as a combined horror and blessing, the table filled with surgical equipment. Circular saws, knives, hatchets, even a needle and thread to patch up my makeshift amputation.
I wanted to cry in gratitude and scream in terror and shout in a rage.
You want to shorten your legs? Go for it. Have some toys.
“Bastard,” I whined in my nasal vykker voice.