It took me a couple of days and copious amounts of alcohol, but eventually I learnt to ignore them and their pestering requests and go about my day relatively undisturbed. I hadn't noticed this before, but if you or any of your friends are recovering alcoholics, you probably know that a slight stupor doesn't inhibit the boring routine of a desk job too much. I was actually doing quite alright.

Until there came a voice I couldn't ignore.

Whatcha reading there, big guy?

She was a standard nerve cell, calling from behind my oesophagus. At first I thought she was just trying to stand out to get my attention, but none of her neighbours had any complaints to make.

I know you're holding a novel. But God is a cruel one, he didn't connect me to the eyes. Won't you please just translate?

I got back to my Highsmith mystery and tried to shut her out. Conversations were a strict taboo. The two skin cells I'd tried to talk to, right at the beginning, hadn't stopped pestering me until I finally scraped them off.

Jesus, big guy, you think I can't feel your rising heart rate? Just gimme a little slice of those high-octane chases. You have no idea how boring the life of a nerve cell can be. I'm just a simple girl, with a simple love for mysteries.

"How do you even know about mystery novels and high-octane chases?", I uttered before I could stop myself. "You're a goddamn cell."

A good journalist never reveals her sources.

Well, now that the silence was broken, I might as well continue. At least she had a sense of humour.

She was alright, actually. I read to her a bunch over the next couple of days. Had a few vacation days left over, sometimes you just need a comfortable night in with your nerve cell. She guessed the ending of the second Ripley novel before I did. Smart little thing.

Anyway, we hit it off. Only issue is she's stuck there, right behind my oesophagus. Makes conversations difficult, and she's uncomfortable if I swallow or breathe too quickly. So tonight, she asked me to free her.

You see, if she could just be out here, in the real world, we could be friends in real life. Maybe more. And she's waiting for me, waiting to end her suffering. Together, we could be free.

It was easy, really, just the way she'd described. The knife glid through my skin like butter. And with her help, navigating my throat was a breeze, I'd circumvented my airway and localised the oesophagus in no time. I could feel her, sitting there, shaking in anticipation. Don't worry, honey, I'm almost there. Just need to ignore the vertigo for a little bit, maybe I should've drunk more water. And is that saliva or blood, or spinal fluid? Did I dig too far? It would be easier to see if my eyes weren't screaming at me like that. Actually, most of my cells are screaming, I suppose they're just jealous. It can't be spinal fluid, or I wouldn't be able to hear your voice anymore. But you're still there, just waiting for me. Right? Right?