200 Litres

[Subtitle: Stay away from the solvent storeroom!]

[Also, the following account is COMPLETELY TRUE]

The methanol is staring at me: 200 litres of flammable liquid, encased in a steel drum. Through the uncapped opening I can see an eye; it’s eye. Floating in the metallic black liquid it seems to coalesce, then disperse, coalesce, then disperse. I can’t quite keep my focus on it. The light in the solvent storeroom is dim, and the room is full of shadows. An emergency siren sits on a near bye shelf, just out of reach. I am wedged into a crowded corner, surrounded by other drums of methanol; but they are capped and inert, I don’t need to open them.

Any moment my rational brain will calm me with it’s rational thoughts: the eye is only your reflection, when you blink, it blinks; see. The methanol is not sentient. It doesn’t think. Or know. Or want. Or manipulate.

Inside the drum, billions of molecules are vibrating. They are made from life-creating atoms - carbon, oxygen and hydrogen - but they cannot create life on their own.

But what if another atom had gotten inside? A radical. A wanderer. A nomadic particle travelling freely through the unexamined ether. An element maintaining its atomic integrity, despite massive dimensional distortions. Could it be a unique isomer of nitrogen? Maybe it became trapped between interstices, nestled into a polar channel, and forced to bond. What if a new amino acid has been created? A strange amine formed from mutated wood alcohol and incubated in a cavernous, metallic womb.

I know it’s there; I can’t deny it now. It glides easily through the cold fluid, finding gaps and dislocations, increasing the vibrational energy of the surrounding molecules.

And I can hear it. It calls to me. The liquid warble seeps into air and creeps closer, reaching into my ear. It weaves insidiously through my auditory canal, brushing against the fine hairs lining the inner membrane, giving them a gentle motion, a slow beat. The movement of the hair generates a beat of electrical impulses. From the structured calm of my inner ear, they move into the spongy chaos of my cerebral cortex. I am confused.

My confusion generates a clarity: The methanol is sentient. And it does want. It wants…it wants me to…no! (Matches). I turn my head away, but I can still hear it’s insistent voice. I need to move, to run. I try to shift my body but my hips won’t move, they’re jammed against the solid, metal drums. The drums are blocking me, holding me tight. I need help. I stretch out my arm; I can almost reach…the emergency…siren…no. I will have to scream…

But I don’t scream. I feel calm. (Flame). I can still hear the voice, the voice of the methanol. It is soft and fluid. My brain is soft and fluid. (Heat). My skin is buzzing. My epidermis is moving, undulating; a gentle motion, a slow beat. My bones have become soft; I am fluid.