THE BACK OF MY HANDS
by Rick Hautala
This eBook edition published 2010 at Smashwords by Ghostwriter Publications, Dorchester, Dorset, England
www.thepennydreadfulcompany.com
www.rickhautala.com
© Rick Hautala 2010
Cover Design by Neil Jackson
Ebook created by Stephen James Price
PRAISE FOR RICK HAUTALA
“Rick Hautala’s work shines with dedication, hard-earned craft and devotion.” - Peter Straub
“A master of contemporary horror and suspense.” - Cemetery Dance
“Rick Hautala proves each time out that he understands and respects the inner workings of the traditional horror novel as well or better than anyone writing.” - Joe R. Lansdale
THE BACK OF MY HANDS
The back of my hands started looking like a man’s back when I was—oh, maybe ten or eleven years old.
I remember how fascinated I was by the curling, black hairs I saw sprouting there; how amazed I was when I flexed and unflexed my hands, and watched the twitching blue lines of veins, the knitting needle–thin tendons, and the bony knobs of cartilage and knuckle. Sometimes, I used to constrict the flow of blood to my arms—you know, like a junkie—to make the veins inflate until they fairly bulged through the skin. The bigger they got, the more “manly” I thought my arms and hands looked.
It might seem laughable now, but I still believe hands are a God-given miracle. They let us touch and manipulate the world outside of ourselves. Sure, scientists say that vision is the only sense where the nerve connects directly to the brain, but hands are the only things that let us reach out, to touch and explore the world. They allow us to feel love and to create what we know and feel, both internally and externally.
They’re our only real solid connection to what’s “out there.”
Our other senses—sight, sound, taste, and smell—can all deceive us. They trick us into thinking we’re experiencing something that might not really be there.
But when we touch something, when we hold it in our hands and caress it, we have no doubt whatsoever that it truly exists. When I look at my own hands now, though, I can’t help but be filled with revulsion and horror.