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Chapter 1

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The room had wood-planked walls that created little reflection from the little lamp in the corner. Along with the lamp, the walls enclosed a few dressers, a cabinet, three nightstands, a desk, one very large mirror, and a king-sized bed, to which an awakening Icarus lay chained.

At first look, one might assume that the room’s unchained occupant had covered all the furniture in random newspapers or papier-mâché, but if one were to look further, they would realize the papers had been pages torn from books.

Proof of this could be seen on the floor covered with empty book spines. Gutted texts and their splayed pages littered the room Icarus had awoken in, though when he finally came to, the scenery provided the least of his worries. He was naked and chained to a bed: a most regrettable way to wake up.

After scanning the area for several minutes, he attempted wriggle out of the chains that held him, pulling his wrists and kicking his own ankles without any success. Before long, Icarus realized that it was impossible to free himself, and he decided to make himself comfortable. A character trait (or defect) of the young artist displayed itself in his willingness to choose the path of least resistance, even in this situation. Enjoying the bed, he returned to sleep for another five hours.

When he awakened, he remembered the situation and his lack of follow-through to resolve it, and felt a little ashamed. Finally, he decided to call for help.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Whatever I’ve done, please, let me go! I have money!” Icarus loudly lied. The bedroom door opened only a few seconds after his call, and in came a tall woman with short black curly hair. The mystery woman wore a pair of dark blue jeans, with a tight olive colored short-sleeve shirt. After taking one look at Icarus, she sneered at the sight of his genitals and grabbed a blanket out of a cabinet.

She made sure to hold the blanket just right, so she couldn’t see his crotch. Upon reaching the bed, she gently placed the blanket over the lower half of Icarus’s body as she sat down next to him. She continued to sneer. As Icarus stared at this new stranger, he noticed something familiar about her.

“Hello, Icarus. How are you feeling?” the woman drolly asked. She was an odd one, this woman. While she looked young, up close Icarus could see she’d aged. Though her tinted chai skin admitted no wrinkles, she did have bags under her eyes, small furrows on her forehead, and a resting face of disappointment. Whoever this woman was, she had to be a remarkable contender somewhere—or, at least, a failure despite many endeavored attempts.

“All things considered, I’m very good,” Icarus answered. Accustomed by now to meeting strangers, he had a high threshold for odd characters. In his time, he had met drug dealers, eccentric landlords, and women with varying interests in promiscuity, as well as a meager handful of clowns, cops, and nuns. “Might I ask why I’m chained to this bed, stranger?”

“We’ve met.”

“Have we?”

“Twice, actually. Although I’m sure you don’t know about the second time.”

“Oh, remind me: what’s your name?”

“Cemone.”

Icarus searched his mind for any Cemone, but couldn’t think of any. He wanted to ask her to specify the day that they had met, or if she’d been the one who saved him from drowning, when he suddenly felt it again: the reeling. His heart began to pound and the chains around his arms and legs suddenly felt unbearably tight. His body began to shake and seize. Reaching for his face, Cemone felt the sweat and heat from his body. Icarus was suffering from a harder withdrawal than any he’d ever before.

“Icarus, we can’t do this again. I don’t have any more morphine. You’ll just have to ride it out,” Cemone explained.

“What’s happening?” Icarus screamed. “The chains! At least remove the chains!”

“I’m not going to do that either, Icarus. Just hold on.”

He screamed even more: this time with a scorching rage. Soon he began to vomit, but with nothing in him, only rancid stomach muck flew out past his chin. He threw his torso and pelvis into the air hoping he could free himself. He kept rocking the bed before the pain became too great. He couldn’t break the chains, and it was killing him. Icarus couldn’t feel anything now besides numb with agony, rage, and confusion. His body grew cold and then colder, while his shaking shivers continued his feeble assault on the chains. This wasn’t the withdrawal he was used to; this was something bigger—something more abruptly excruciating.

“Please, Cemone, I’ll do anything. If you don’t have anything then I can go home. Let me go home,” Icarus cried, this time with tears in his eyes. He begged himself to convince her with whatever charm he had. “I’ll get better at home, I know that. Now let me go, please.”

“No, you can’t leave the apartment,” Cemone answered calmly. Unsatisfied with her response, Icarus attempted to strike her, though he knew the chain wouldn’t allow it. Possessed by the pain of his condition, Icarus flew into another rage, with his body eager to fuel any emotion that would lead to him obtaining heroin, salvation, or both.

“You bitch! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, I swear!” Icarus roared. After several attempted lunges, he spat at Cemone. Disgusted, she wiped the spit away and walked out of the room for a few seconds. When she returned, she held a black machete. It was half the size of Cemone and looked twice as heavy. She rested it on her shoulder as she approached.

“When you wake up, I’ll let you go,” she calmly explained, as if the weapon had changed nothing about their exchange. Icarus contorted and raged nonetheless, attempting to break the bed for his retreat. Ignoring this, Cemone walked towards Icarus’s lower half, gathered a few calming breaths, and then sunk into a chopping stance. She placed both hands on the handle of the blade and raised her machete well over her head. Icarus stopped at the sight of the stance, starting to understand what the young girl was going to do. Hate and pain quickly abated in favor of panic and fear.

“No, Cemone! Please, I’m sorry! I should have never called you a bitch. You’re not a bitch. Now, don’t do this!” Cemone took more cleansing breaths. She bent her knees and began to sink into her makeshift samurai stance.

“No, you shouldn’t have, Icarus. But that’s alright. I’ve done this before. You’ll be fine.” Cemone blasted into the air as she finished her sentence. As she rocketed her sword down, she screamed “Niiwana' bonzai!” Icarus screamed too as Cemone swung her machete down on his right leg and cut it clean off, along with a portion of the mattress he lay upon. He stared down at his blood-red right leg disconnected from his body. Clean cut, like butter. Nervous laughter and disbelief were all Icarus could create. He turned back to Cemone with her machete now stuck in the floor. She laughed awkwardly as well, and for a strange instant, the pair shared this bizarre chortle before Icarus inevitably blacked out.

Pulling the machete up from the floor, Cemone saw that Icarus had lost consciousness. “Alright,” she said as she raised her bloody machete to her shoulder. “Time to begin surgery,” she said, and brought it down for a second chop.