My first time undergoing surgery was rather clichéd. It’s like in the movies when the patients are wheeled into the operation room and the glaring lights warm temporarily before the frostiness of the room sinks into skin. The walls are of the familiar bluish bathroom tile sort and I felt like I was at the back of a seafood restaurant, primed and ready to be chopped up. Dinner is served. I laid flat on my stomach, and waited for a few agonizing minutes on the operating table. Like a slab of cold cut meat, I had thought. I shook my head and diverted my gaze from the glimmering silver instruments that could fluently pierce and prod human flesh. Delicate and fine tools for the doc, but if used in the wrong hands….I could only shudder at the consequences. My wild imagination was concealed by a blanket that draped over my head before I could observe my surroundings any longer; thus ending the dreadful images I conjured in my head. However, I noted that there were some dark stains on the blanket and tried not to deem them as dried blood. I blamed my repulsive thoughts on the horror films and dramas I’ve been entertaining myself to lately and swore at my clenched fists. Why was I so frightened? I was being cut up, yes; but I’ll be sewn back up. Patched up in no time, I tried to convince myself. A prickly feeling touched my bare back and I felt the anesthesia spread in circles. Long, drawn out circles. The doctor rubbed my back and I was falling deeper and deeper into the hole, the sounds of my heart rate on the machine, quickening, jumping and shuddering.