-They warned me not to go out. As I looked at my hand I realized that I had paid no mind to their concern. The surface of the hand felt odd, razed and pocked like a small battlefield. Also, the smallest finger felt loose inside the skin, the accompanying tendon no longer a taut anchor in preparedness for practical use. I had gone somewhere…they had done..something. Clouds whirled in my head. My hand was not the calloused unbroken evidence of an honest day’s work. It was a patchwork. Cuts and cuts pained the surface, accompanied by internally applied paper adhesive. Regular one-sided tape if you will. So my hand did not hold together well, lines of exposed paper crossed the surface. Numb and barely held together, my hand was evidence of a terrible kind of surgery. Or something. It was a game..I had been drugged somehow, had agreed to this somehow. If I didn’t think about the hand too much or look at it too closely, it seemed to function better. Where had I been? Why was my pinky dislocated? I picked at a center line tab of exposed paper. The whole hand and arm began to part lengthwise and I squeezed the edges together with my eyes held shut, unwilling to peer into the wound. I never wondered why there was no blood.-


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