When you were pre-opped, they all seemed so confident and competent. “Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands” they said. “He knows what he’s doing,” says one of the nurses, gesturing to the surgeon.
Then the anaesthesia wears off prematurely, and you wake up in the middle of a horribly-botched operation. The machines that should be reading 1000 are reading 229, and have been pushed into a corner to be ignored.
Someone’s suggesting that the solution isn’t the major operation that was planned but simply a random afternoon of meditating on “behaviour change.” There are jokers to the left of you, clowns to the right. After sneering and jeering over their surgical masks, they turn their attention to their hands, brows furrowed quizzically at the blunt rusty scalpels they brandish.
You wake up screaming, to realise… it wasn’t a nightmare, it’s actually happening.