Transformation.

I'm in an apartment with three others. One is a dubious young man, who claims to be my boyfriend, but i do not recall this alliance being mutual, i see him as more of an acquaintance.

The others, a girl and another young man, both of similar character to the first.

The place is dingy, damp, and quite frankly falling apart. Stained carpets and floorboards, a battered old rug thrown down in a vain attempt to add a little home comfort.

The room is filled with the intoxicating smoke born from substances purchased from the back streets of the city, my three acquaintances enjoying the delights of their ill-gotten gains.

I'm offered a taste many times, but refuse the gift, suspecting an ulterior motive for this generosity.

Then, what i can only describe as dishwater tea, is offered to me. In politeness, and thinking to myself, how harmful can it be, the taste might just offend my taste buds, i graciously accept the beverage, sipping it nervously, waiting for a reaction.

The room is spinning, faces leer and close in on me, a torrent of lascivious grinning lips and teeth loom and retreat, like the motion of a carousel.

I awake, motionless, restrained at the neck, wrists, ankles and waist. "It's over now", a psychotic voice creeps out of the darkness, "Surgery is over my love!"

Panic courses through my veins, sinews and mind, what the hell is going on, what surgery?

"How beautiful you look, a beautiful freak for all the world to see!"

I'm released from my torture table, steel and leather caressed with my blood, and i stand before a mirror cloaked in a silken sheet. These three crazed butchers, ready to reveal my countenance.

With the spontaneous release of grimy hands, the sheet slips down the mirrors edge and I am presented with an image of myself, alien and disgusting to my eyes.

The left half of me is just like Bungle the bear, and the right a replica of the Smash Robot from the 1970's, and all of me smeared with the blood of naivety.