Ecce Quid Feci

Pancuronium Bromide is quite the finicky accomplice. It required considerable trial and error and my initial practice with the muscle relaxant led to several unintended deaths. Well, intended deaths to be sure—but insignificant and unfulfilling deaths. Unfortunate, but to every great cause, some sacrifice is required.

Those first attempts with the muscle relaxant resulted in abrupt and relatively painless exits to the Else. After a few moments, the Non’s diaphragm would seize, their lungs would fail, and their brains would starve without oxygen. I suppose suffocating in silent terror was a less than pleasant experience for them—however fleeting. A few subsequent attempts with lower doses ended in, shall we say, abbreviated sessions at various stages of torture. One of my playthings shrieked unexpectedly in the midst of a rather delicate incision. The resulting and regrettable twitch of my fingers ended her prematurely.

Eventually a formula emerged. A slightly diluted concentration of the Pancuronium, at a slightly elevated dosage to relative weight yielded wonders when injected intramuscularly. It works quickly. Within two minutes one experiences slurred speech and begins to lose control of their extremities. Within five minutes they are entirely at my mercy—a trait I’m not particularly known for. My dose is sufficient to keep them completely inanimate and, more importantly, completely aware for up to two hours. It’s also just beneath the threshold for complete paralysis of the diaphragm and heart, so they can still provide necessary vital functions while I Play. No medical apparatus necessary. And if need be (and it often is) I can administer maintenance doses to prolong our time together—that of the Non and I.

They can’t blink. The ocular muscles are incapable of dilating their pupils or guiding their eyes. So whenever possible, I am sure to show them what I’m doing or intend to do. Sometimes that is the first thing that returns to them—the eyes. Fortunate that. For then they can see the masterpiece that I have made of them. No matter what they’ve felt, or how prolonged their suffering, they still never seem to fully believe what has been done to them until they look on it with their own eyes. It is often what undoes them, and I must say, watching a mind fragment before you is exquisite fun.

While it does provide me a unique opportunity for experimentation, the Pancuronium is not always necessary to my work, so I use it sparingly. After all, I do very much enjoy the shrieks and tears, the futile struggles and pleas, the gasps, and the panic so plain in a gaze.

But imagine—just imagine what I might do with you, as you lie helpless and aware before me and my extensive variety of tools. For hours. You cannot speak. Nor scream. Nor move. But you can watch your life trickle down the gleaming edge of a blade as I dangle it before you. You can hear the sounds of your body breaking and tearing. And you can FEEL all of it. Adrenaline still pulses through your veins, heightening your senses and nerve endings to the utter, inexplicable extreme. And I provide you with the greatest of agonies I can conceive.

Imagine how dramatic your exit from this world and how grand your entrance to the Else. Behold what I have done. I’ve readied you; I’ve made you worthy.

Now. With your screams trapped inside, your mind shattered, your torment eternal.

Yes, now. You may.

Go.

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