The Examination

Once again I am stretched open, chest disected, laying sprawled over an examining table. As the doctors find more and more flaws in my inner workings, they shy away. Defective model. Incomplete. (You cannot reach me now.) (It's over.)

I have been Seen. Discovered. Crowds of onlookers clap their hands slowly as the doctor pull out my brain. Thick cement drips from it, half hardened. They have Found Me Out and my brain is already building a protective layer, to shield the onlookers from viewing inside anymore. The cement doesn't dry quick enough. It never does. The excess is wiped off my brain and the first incision is made. Gobs of black oil spill from the cut, pooling into the doctors hands before dropping to the floor. The onlookers gasp and take a step backwards. They have Seen The Truth. (I've been guilty all this time.) My brain is placed back in the proper place before they sew me shut again. (I don't need anybody.)

The doctors and onlookers head toward the exit of the examination room and flip the light switch off before slamming the metal doors. I remain sprawled on the examining table and see my file containing my diagnosis.

They found me out. They have labeled me as Too Much To Handle, Too Crazy. Psychotic. Mentally Insane. They know too much. The cement has hardened.