White Hands, Pt. 9

Everything’s white. I’m standing in a featureless, white nothing, and I’ve got to say, it’s kind of pissing me off. I try to walk, and nothing changes. I think about walking, and nothing. I shut my eyes, and it’s still white. I look around, and I imagine I can feel my head moving, but my vision doesn’t. I try to touch my face, and I don’t have any arms or hands to reach for it with, no fingers to feel it.

I would think that I’m dead, but I’m still thinking. You can’t be dead and think, right? That makes sense. And I have my memories. I remember the hunter, the ducks, the rabbit, the mouse, all the other fuckers I was friends with and the things we were do. There’s so much I can imagine, and there’s so little to show for it.

I scream. It doesn’t make any noise, but it echoes in my head for an eternity, echoes until it becomes just another part of the featureless universe I’ve found myself in.

“This fucking sucks,” I say aloud. Or not. Nobody hears me. Or maybe I hear myself. Or maybe I don’t. Whatever. It fucking sucks. And then there’s another voice in my head, and it’s definitely not my own.

Do you see? it says. Do you understand now how frustrating it is?

It doesn’t even faze me. I mean, at least it’s a distraction.“What? How frustrating what is? That you could try for an eternity and you’d never be able to shoot me?”

The voice laughs. No, creature. I am not the hunter, although your recalcitrance frustrates me as well.

“Then what are you talking about?”

That there should be nothing instead of something. How very boring it is. How much it compels one to try and fix it, to improve upon it. And then how frustrating it is when your improvements refuse to function as you intended.

If I had eyes, I’d roll them. “Am I supposed to understand that cryptic bullshit?”

No. But you will.

The voice goes silent, and for a second, or maybe it’s a lifetime, I’m lonely. But then I feel something. I feel something, man, and I hadn’t had anything but my own mind to keep me company. It’s blowing my mind to feel something.

I’ve got hands. White hands, hands in white gloves, and I can see them, so I must have eyes. And all the nothingness is still there, but it’s different now that I have hands. It’s a void to be filled, a canvas to be covered. Emptiness for me to pour my vision into, a world for me to enact my will upon. It’s anything I want it to be, and I’m scared and excited and angry and overwhelmed all at once.

And that’s “White Hands.” Thank you for reading, and come back tomorrow for the beginning of the next piece!


2 responses to “White Hands, Pt. 9

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