Nine Months in Captivity: A Fetal Memoir

Nine Months in Captivity: A Fetal Memoir by T.B.A. Williamson, formerly incarnated as Brigadier General Josiah “Bucky” Warshaw, U.S.M.C.

Month One
Damn it! Who turned the lights off? I must have lost consciousness in that McDonald’s by the base. That last bite of quarter pounder really got stuck in there! I guess I passed out before I could cough it up. My head must have hit the floor pretty hard. Am I in a coma? I’d better not be in a goddamn coffin.

Month Two
Lights still off. I remain unable to move my arms, legs, or head. It feels as though my entire body has been numbed and bound in some sort of infernal sleeping bag. I feel too alert for this to be a coma, yet there’s been no word from my captors.

Month Three
Just realized that I can open my eyes, but everything is still blurry and dark. Definitely not dead. I can move my arms and legs a little but my head now feels enormous and swollen, as though it contains half my body weight. I believe they’re conducting sonar testing nearby, as I was blasted awake this morning by an unearthly booming. Still, I have no sympathy for those whales. If I can take it without beaching myself, so can they.

Month Four
Well, if they’re not going to give me a toilet, I’m going to have to whiz in my bag.

Month Five
I realized this morning that my teeth are gone! Those bastards must have knocked me out and filed them down to the roots. Still, I’ve regained feeling in my fingers and toes, which is a relief, although my body seems to be covered in a fine, downy hair. God knows what they’ve been feeding me through this blasted tube in my belly. Yesterday I got a taste of…was it horseradish? Horseshit is more like it. Still, it might be a clue as to my whereabouts. Israel? France? Goddamnit, I hope I’m not in Germany, though if I am I might be able to make it to the American base on foot.

Month Six
God damn, it’s getting so a man can hardly breathe in here. They continually transfer me to smaller and smaller cells. Sometimes it feels like the walls are closing in on me in a bizarrely rhythmic manner. Also, yesterday’s earthquake seems to have turned me upside down. I find it oddly comforting, but I dread the aftershocks, especially when they’re accompanied by that goddamn Jane Fonda tape my wife used to work out to in the Eighties.

Month Seven
Sometimes I just get so lonely in here I want to kick something! Flailing about wildly seems to have a calming effect. I hear voices in the next room, sometimes angry, sometimes laughing. Still impossible to understand. (Canadians?) Feeling strong enough to start working on my escape plan.

Month Eight
This cell barely gives me room to move, and some idiot keeps playing Beethoven at a deafening volume, lending credence to my German Abductor Theory. Also, it seems they have affixed some type of desexualizing garment on me–perhaps a diaper because of all the whizzing? Either that or they removed my pecker. Obviously my sanity is nearing the breaking point, if I’m thinking like that. MUST REMAIN STRONG.

Month Nine
I have the uncanny sensation that if I can only stretch my legs far enough, I’ll be able to push through the small, pliable opening I now feel at the back of my head. The claustrophobia is intense, and I have a feeling things are going to get worse before they get better. The urge to force myself through the opening is becoming unbearable, though, so I must trust my instinct and leave this strange place that’s been my home for the last nine months. Funny, I’ve grown to love it. But I’ve got to get out, if only to see my penis again.

Things that will nauseate you...

...during your first trimester:

Baby powder

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