Trembling With Fear 04/25/21

Seeing Hands by Hunter Lu

He was microwaving a sausage and egg burrito when he saw the Hands again, dead still, palms open like a starfish, hovering in the air unattached to any form like a pair of flesh colored birds. 

They were perfect as usual, smooth with a healthy glow, the platonic ideal of human appendages, possessing the airbrushed, ageless perfection of a hand model.  Each fingernail was beautifully flawless, harboring not a speck of grey grit or crumb of leftover lunch.  The Hands likely belonged to a woman, he thought, although it could be a man’s.  He could only guess since the wielder of the Hands possessed no body to gender. 

His wife entered the kitchen and gave him a kiss on the neck.

Do you want any coffee honey?  She signed in ASL.

Yes, thank you babe.  He signed back. 

He last saw the Hands 6 months ago, before his new medication.  These will stop the voices, or signing hands in your case.  Can’t expect a born deaf man to hear voices, his psychiatrist signed as he pressed a bottle of pills into his hands. 

The Hands first appeared two years ago.  He was in the Company bathroom when they warped next to him at the urinal.  He had screamed and tried to bat the Hands away like they were pestilent flies.  Of course, his hands went right through the Hands since they weren’t physical hands, just mental hands and he felt sheepish thinking about the whole silly Hands incident now.  Over time, he grew to tolerate them.  In a way, they were old associates, only with spontaneous interactions, similar to guest appearances on an old sitcom.

Usually, he saw the Hands when stressed, like when he forgot his wife’s birthday or the time he accidentally overcooked a pair of steaks on the grill or the time he didn’t laugh hard enough at the flying chunks of Enemy bodies, a big no no, at the Company BBQ during a highlight video of the YEAR’S BEST DRONE STRIKES. 

His burrito was done and he walked with it to the dining table.  When he sat down, the Hands floated towards him.

Good morning.  The Hands signed.

Good morning.  He signed back. 

I’m sorry about your dreams.  But you must see.

I’m tired Hands, I don’t want to see.  I want to sleep.

What is an Enemy?  Who is the Enemy?

The kids rushed into the dining room before he could answer, but he would have to wait because he didn’t want his family to know he was seeing the Hands again and confess that he had stopped taking his pills because they were causing him to throw up in the middle of the night, forcing him to run to the toilet, body in cold sweats, heart in a stampede, his mind still fresh from nightmares so vivid he felt trapped by them even in the consciousness of daylight, those horribly immoral night terrors where he felt just the slightest, microscopic germ of sympathy for the Enemy when he should only feel hatred for these vermin, these roaches. 

His kids took their seats at the table.  They were nine and seven, both boys.  Bright, wonderful kiddos, both with thick mats of luscious wheat brown hair and caramel colored eyes.  When they sat down, they started to play fight, pinching and punching each other.

His wife placated them with two bowls of sugary cereal. 

Don’t disturb your father.  Big day at the Company, right honey?

Yes, babe.  Big day at the Company. 

Really?  What’s going on, Ddad?  Signed the oldest. 

We’re testing a New Weapon, son.  One that’ll melt the Enemy.

The kiddos clapped their little hands and a gleam of joy crossed their beautiful faces.

Will they melt like mac and cheese?  Signed the younger one.

The oldest giggled.  More like…turkey gravy.  Probably chunky too.

The New Weapon will be launched from the New Swarm Drones.  They can melt the Enemy with precision.  A swarm of fire ants.  His children clapped at this answer and begged their father to explain more and his hands obliged to their loud cheers, silent to his dead ears but not his eyes, who watched the pride of lush nationalism sweep their little minds.

Now, now, kids, settle down.  Your father has a big day, let him eat.  Why don’t you tell your father about the drawing you made in class yesterday?

His oldest reached into his backpack and pulled out a drawing.  A group of stick figures were standing in a playground.  Each of them carried something in their hands: baseball bats, swords and other crudely drawn shapes of weaponry.  One of the stick figures was on the ground, covered in angry red marks.

Mrs. Smith wanted us to make a presentation on the War.  So, I drew this to represent the day me and my friends got an Enemy, a kid, like me.  Super proud we got ‘em, since it’s so tricky you know?  Since they look just like us.  Only they think BAD, like evil BAD.  That’s why they’re the Enemy, says Mrs. Smith.  We must ALWAYS BE READY against the Enemy, she says, even if they’re “people” like us, with skin and bones and blood and mommies and daddies.  But we can’t be soft, she says.  Oh!  And TO FORGIVE IS TO BE WEAK, of course!

The Hands floated above the children. 

What is an Enemy?  Who is the Enemy?  Signed his old friend. 

Stop asking me, he thought as his face grew red and hot.

His wife frowned.  Honey, is everything ok?  You seem stressed. 

It’s nothing honey, it’s nothing.

She looked at the kids, who had gone back to their cereal.

You’re not…seeing the Hands again are you?

No, of course not.

Ok, but you remember what happened last time, you almost quit the Company because the Hands told you things.  Like how the War is bad.  Like how the Enemy should be treated like people.  Ridiculous.  We can’t have those thoughts in this house honey. You know that.

Yes, dear, I know.

You have to take your medication, honey.  We can’t have any interruptions to our way of life.  Why, how’re we going buy that new car or that video game system the kids want?  The Company will provide if we follow orders.

You’re right, babe, you’re always right.

After that, breakfast was finished and he went to his car.  It was his wife’s turn to take the kids to school and before she left in the minivan, she pressed a bottle of pills into his hands. 

Be sure to take them, ok honey?

The Hands had followed her outside, hanging above her like an angel’s halo. 

What is an Enemy?  Who is the Enemy?. 

His wife drove off with the kids, leaving him alone with the Hands.  He was silent for a few minutes before he threw the bottle into the glove compartment and drove off to work.