"Hold my hand,"
he breathed.
The sagging skin on my forearm flapped as I raised the claw Time left me. Blotchy flesh looked worse against the hospital bedsheet. My thin voice stung my ears, so I whispered. "I don't have a hand. I just have wrinkles."
His eyes glistened. "You have a beautiful hand," he choked. "That hand saved lives."
"And struck children, and broke wedding vows, and--" Whine, whine. Instead of my sonorous alto I heard a demoness, accusations rising to a screech. Everything trembled, and my heart-beat pounded in my ears. "And let babies die, and--"
This is a panic attack. I catalogued the fact. That was all I could do. The demon went on.
"I don't want to die!" The scream ended in hacking sobs, but dried-out eyes can't make tears. I hate this self. I catalogued that, too.
"Please hold my hand," he croaked.
"I don't have a hand!"
"I do."
I looked at his hand, sprawling oversized on his forearm like a cartoon character's. I remembered his muscles used to flex, round and fertile like South America, but I couldn't remember his name. 60 years, but no name. Pathetic. My chest ached; I finally felt tears. My nose ran--I knew he could see.
"It's okay, Jen."
"My wrinkles, he won't take these wrinkles...and I forgot again," I squeaked.
"I'm Brian. I'll hold your wrinkles."
I exhaled. "Brian."
"Can I hold your pretty hand now?"
I nodded.
He took my hand.
The sagging skin on my forearm flapped as I raised the claw Time left me. Blotchy flesh looked worse against the hospital bedsheet. My thin voice stung my ears, so I whispered. "I don't have a hand. I just have wrinkles."
His eyes glistened. "You have a beautiful hand," he choked. "That hand saved lives."
"And struck children, and broke wedding vows, and--" Whine, whine. Instead of my sonorous alto I heard a demoness, accusations rising to a screech. Everything trembled, and my heart-beat pounded in my ears. "And let babies die, and--"
This is a panic attack. I catalogued the fact. That was all I could do. The demon went on.
"I don't want to die!" The scream ended in hacking sobs, but dried-out eyes can't make tears. I hate this self. I catalogued that, too.
"Please hold my hand," he croaked.
"I don't have a hand!"
"I do."
I looked at his hand, sprawling oversized on his forearm like a cartoon character's. I remembered his muscles used to flex, round and fertile like South America, but I couldn't remember his name. 60 years, but no name. Pathetic. My chest ached; I finally felt tears. My nose ran--I knew he could see.
"It's okay, Jen."
"My wrinkles, he won't take these wrinkles...and I forgot again," I squeaked.
"I'm Brian. I'll hold your wrinkles."
I exhaled. "Brian."
"Can I hold your pretty hand now?"
I nodded.
He took my hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment