Just as Davis touched lucidity he was fed another serving of fugu and retreated to his zombie state. Forced to stand, he was pushed outside to roam the jungle terrain. He felt like he was swimming in slow motion, the sounds of birds became thunderous, the torrential rains like thousands of needles shot from the sky. Lethargic prey, waiting to be seized. At the height of poisoning the world was like a fast-flipping photo book, images unbound by time flashing before him: slicing of a knife, a shortcut he walked as a child that led to the crumbling stairs of an abandoned Victorian house, his first wife’s face peeking above a velvet red sheet, all mixed in with his present. Nausea, vomiting, dizziness all became one state. His name lost, physical identity amorphous, varying from balloon to skeleton.
In the moments before repoisoning he remembered he chose this assignment but not its outcome, planned running toward the sun the moment he could break free, thought about what he would write as a story. He saw other faces, not sure if they were other drug-induced zombies or his delusions. Please kill me, he wanted to scream, his voice water in his head. Blank eyes stared back at his, mirrors upon mirrors, reflecting infinity.
