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His hands were an enigma to her. His fingers were long and skinny. His hands would gesture wildly when he got excited over whatever he was talking about. His hands were musician’s hands. People would come for miles, not to see him but to hear the wonderful, soulful music his hands would produce. It seemed as though they glided over the smooth keys, barely pressing down before moving on to the next key. His eyes would close and his hands would take on a life of their own as they plucked the chords and sent notes of music that would bring a tear to anyone’s eye, even the most emotionless person would feel something stirring inside themselves. When people heard his name all they could think about would be the beautiful things his hands had brought to life. But the same hands that could brighten any day could also darken any night. They struck fear and terror into other’s eyes. His hands seemed like all the worse things in the world combined with no escape. They would feel warm but unrelenting as they grabbed onto a person’s throat and never let go. They wouldn’t look pale in the winter or caramel in summer, but red, stained with their blood. They wouldn’t look complete because of the black spots dancing before their eyes as their air supply slowly drained. She knew all these things, yet stayed. His hands memorized her and she knew she would never be able to forget them. The way they would curl around her own smaller hand as they walked, her blissfully unaware of the damage those same hands had and would continue to bring to many. She wouldn’t know of any of this until it was to late. She knew of their beauty because she had heard, seen and felt it to her very core. But she also aware of the ugliness they could create. But it was too late for those phantom hands were already leaving her pale, lifeless body.
