It was her right hand that caused her such distress, it was not her thoughts, no never her thoughts. After all, everyone gets angry from time to time, everyone might picture someone's death, crave it in her head. But thoughts, thoughts can only hurt their creator, like poison they erode her brain until there's nothing left, they never cause any harm to their object, never.
Though the hand was different. The hand was not a thought, the hand was hers, hers at the beginning yes, but then gradually, gradually it rebelled against her, against her will...naughty hand.
It had a life of its own, a will and a way, a way to move, to grasp, to catch hold of things, all without her consent.
Her hand was beginning to feel as if it was not her hand any more.
Very often she asked herself if that could be possible, such an alienation of a limb has never been recorded, and yet...why fret over such a thing..it kept her company after all, and she was so, oh so alone.
Like a friend it seemed, it gave her the things she would never have dared, never have dared to claim.
Like that Pavlova, she would have never thought to taste, but it was there in her hand, the curious girl behind the counter saw the hand picking it up from the tray, so she bought it and ate it. Such rich taste it had, her eyes fell shut, she shivered..
The necklace, so much money spent on such a a little thing, but the hand knew and the hand paid.
At night, she scrutinised it against the light. It was bigger than her left hand, so big in fact her wedding ring did not fit any more... the hand knew that too. It knew what she liked and gave it to her at night when they were alone, the hand played her like a classical guitar, pulled on her delicate strings, like the man she never had. The hand knew. But.
She shouldn't have let it take over, she should have cut it by the wrist, when it was small enough, when she could. Now it had grown too big for the kitchen knife, and now she was thinking of the pain.
And now her husband was dead.
She saw the hand wrap around his fat neck. Could she feel its texture? Could she feel the bone snap?
His eyes wide open fixed on hers full of surprise and contempt. He couldn't believe it! The bastard.
"It's not me you piece of shit." she whispered "It's the hand. I can't stop it, you know..look how big it is, it's not mine.."
But he was dead already and she didn't feel a thing. It was obvious now that it wasn't hers.
"I mean look at it!"
Too beefy, too big, to dark to be hers, it was someone else completely, but who?
Who could it be?
The hand was so protective of her...no she didn't feel a thing of course not. She closed her eyes and the hand pulled the blanket of her head and pushed the corpse off the bed. Like a sack of potatoes it fell on the floor.
Then it lifted her night grown and snuck between her thighs, she smiled and fell asleep.
