Countdown to anesthesia
1229 Words
"Ten."
A voice counted near my ear, muffled as if through frosted glass. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt glued shut. My mind churned like boiling porridge, bubbling with fragments: surgical lights, a signing pen, and that old photograph—eight-year-old me, held by Du Ming as we blew out birthday candles.
"Nine."
At nine, my body jerked violently. A searing pain drilled into my temple, as if someone were hammering a nail into my skull. The agony was real, yet my limbs lay paralyzed, cast in cement. Bullshit, I cursed inwardly. They said I’d just fall asleep. This isn’t sleep—it’s being sealed alive in a coffin.
"Eight."
The male voice dripped with impatience. "BP’s too low. Push another half-dose of epinephrine."
My heart froze. No way, man. Another dose and I’ll meet the King of Hell. But my throat stayed silent. I screamed inside: I haven’t even started my undercover mission! Are you killing me first?
"Seven."
The pain vanished like a tide retreating into the abyss. Dizziness washed over me, light and intoxicating. I nearly moaned in relief. My consciousness swayed—as if my brain had been yanked out and hung on a creaking swing.
"Six."
Zhao Bo’s voice pierced through, sharper than usual: "Heart rate 140 and climbing! Is he allergic to the anesthetic?"
Allergic my ass, I thought. I’m terrified. Who knew signing a contract meant walking straight to the execution ground?
"Five."
A beam of light pierced the darkness—not surgical lamps, but the warm, dim glow of an old tungsten bulb from my childhood. My mother knelt beneath it, wrapping dumplings. She looked up, smiling. "Xiaoxiao, fetch the vinegar."
I opened my mouth to call Mom, but only a garbled "Mhm" escaped. The bulb blinked out.
"Four."
Someone slapped my cheek twice—sharp, brisk slaps, like testing pork at the market.
"Chen Xiao? Can you hear me? Blink if you can."
I strained to blink, but my eyelids refused. Panic flared: I am blinking! Are you blind?!
"Three."
My body plummeted, as if falling from the third floor into a basement. Wind howled in my ears. My heartbeat slowed: Thump... thump... thump... Each pause stretched longer, threatening to stop.
This is it, I realized. I’m done for.
"Two."
Just before I sank into oblivion, a woman’s voice whispered, low and amused: "Remember—you’re Chen Er."
I froze. Chen Er? Who?
An icy liquid surged through my veins—like chilled cola fizzing in my blood, bubbles popping and crackling.
"One."
Silence.
......
Time bled away. Sounds trickled back: electronic beeps, footsteps, rolling wheels, distant waves.
I forced my eyes open. This time, my eyelids obeyed, cracking just enough for blinding white light to stab through. I snapped them shut.
"Awake?"
The woman’s voice again, close enough to brush my ear.
I opened my eyes. Her mask was off now—softer features than during surgery, but dark circles hung beneath her eyes.
"Water..." My voice rasped.
She dabbed a wet cotton swab on my lips. Cool. Like ants marching across my skin.
"Slowly," she cautioned.
Slow? I’m drying into a mummy, I raged silently. But my body remained limp, yielding to her control.
"Am I... dead?"
She laughed. "Dead? You owe us your life. Dying’s not that easy."
I tried to lift my hand, but my wrist was strapped to the bedrail. A nurse pressed down as I struggled. "Don’t move. The IV line’s still in."
I lay still, eyes darting. The ceiling was ash-gray. The walls, ash-gray. Even the curtains—gray. The whole room looked bleach-washed for three days straight.
"How’d the surgery go?" I asked.
Zhao Bo emerged from a corner, clutching black coffee, dark circles sagging to his chin. "Technically successful. Practically? Depends on whether your brain cooperates."
"What’s that mean?"
"Memory implantation isn’t copying files to a USB," he slurped his coffee. "For seventy-two hours, you’ll drift in and out—one moment Chen Xiao, the next Chen Er. Might even think you’re a dog."
I pictured myself sniffing shoes and shuddered.
"So... who am I now?"
Zhao Bo shrugged. "Still Chen Xiao. Once the drugs fully metabolize, you’ll fade into Chen Er."
"Can I change back?"
He shot me a look reserved for idiots. "Technically, yes. Practically? Depends on how much brain you have left when the mission ends."
My gut sank like an anchor.
The woman handed me a small mirror. "Check your new look."
I barely recognized myself: Same face, but jaw shaved raw, a fresh scar slicing through my left eyebrow—likely a surgical slip.
"This scar..."
"Chen Er got it in a fight," she said casually. "Get used to it."
I traced the raised line—a tiny centipede. Fury ignited: My damn eyebrow was fine. Now I look like a one-browed villain.
"When do I leave?"
"Two more hours for observation. If stable, we ship you to the docks."
I licked my lips, tasting bitterness—anesthetic aftermath.
"Can I smoke?"
"No."
"Drink?"
"Absolutely not."
I rolled my eyes. "What about my phone?"
Zhao Bo pulled a worn flip phone from his pocket, buttons faded white. "This only calls and texts. No social media."
I took it. Heavy as a brick.
Silence swallowed the room. Only the heart monitor beeped. I stared at the ceiling as memories flickered:
My police academy graduation, the principal pinning the badge to my chest...
The signing pen dragging across paper on the operating table...
Then fishing boat decks, sea wind laced with blood...
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the chaos. It only swirled thicker.
"Don’t fight it," the woman patted my shoulder. "Resistance makes it worse. Let it flow."
I grimaced. "Flow? I might flow myself into oblivion."
She didn’t answer, just gave me another mint lollipop.
I sucked it. Coolness shot to my brain, clearing some fog.
Two hours stretched like two years. Nurses removed my IV, dressed me in plain clothes: black hoodie, jeans, canvas sneakers—all new, tags still attached.
"Chen Er’s style," the woman said. "You’re a thug now, not a cop."
I sniffed the fabric. Detergent stung my nose.
Zhao Bo handed me a battered backpack. "IDs, cash, burner phone inside. And these."
He pulled out a clear bag of peppermint lollipops.
"For when you crave cigarettes during the mission."
I took it, bitterness swirling in my chest. They’re treating me like a kid.
Before I left, the woman pulled me aside, her voice hushed: "Remember—once aboard, never mention the past. Chen Er’s memories will fill the gaps. If questioned, say ‘Headache, can’t remember.’ Got it?"
I nodded.
The ambulance doors swung open. Evening wind rushed in, reeking of diesel and salt. The driver—same bald man with the whale-tail tattoo—grinned. "Second Brother! Get in!"
I stepped in, but my other foot felt leaden.
"Scared?" the woman asked behind me.
I gritted my teeth. "Hell no."
But my heartbeat thundered in my ears, betraying me.
The doors slammed. Darkness swallowed the light. I sat in the metal belly, clutching the worn backpack like my last anchor.
The engine roared to life. The vehicle lurched. I closed my eyes and whispered:
"Goodbye, Chen Xiao."
"Hello, Chen Er."
In the dark, the ambulance rattled toward the unknown sea.
- Writer
