Asleep

You understand the logic, once Dr. Walters explains why some people prefer to remain awake, but the thought makes you sick to your stomach. So you ask to be put under anesthesia and Dr. Walters nods and pages the anesthesiologist.

With a gentle touch, the anesthesiologist places a mask over your nose and mouth, the rubbery scent of the mask's material intensifying the moment's gravity. You take a deep breath, trying to quell the butterflies in your stomach, and watch as the anesthesiologist turns a knob on the nearby machine. A cold, tingling sensation begins to seep into your lungs as the anesthesia begins to take effect.

The room seems to blur around you, the doctors’ voices growing distant and indistinct. Your eyelids grow heavy, and the edges of consciousness start to fray. You focus on the anesthesiologist's eyes, the last thing you see before succumbing to the deep, dreamless slumber brought on by the gas being sucked into your lungs

Slowly, consciousness begins to dawn, like the first rays of morning light piercing through the darkness. The transition from the deep anesthesia-induced slumber to groggy wakefulness is a gradual one. As your senses return, you become aware of a cold, unforgiving surface beneath you, and the dull ache of disorientation takes hold. With a groan, you attempt to open your eyes, only to be met with a haze of blurriness. It takes a few moments for your vision to adjust to the dim light in the room. As the details sharpen, you realize that you're lying on a hard, cold cement floor. Straw is scattered around you, the prickly, rough texture contrasting with the unforgiving surface beneath. The room is small, bare, and utterly unfamiliar.

Remembering why you are there you look down, more than ready to see your new body.