Hands. They were delicate, soft - and dangerous.
Hands struck people, they struck them without a twitch of remorse. The fingers connected to the palm then curled into themselves like a snail coiling around a strangled mouse.
The worst part was after, when the delicate soft flesh touched your cheek where seconds before it was wounding it. The tips of fingers stroke the injury and coo to it softly not to do whatever you did again. The nails imbed themselves into you, the two strings DNA colliding into a tight match of boxing.
I never understood it. I never understood why my face was the reason for being treated like a farmers pig that would be slaughtered for savory meats.
My nose curled upwards as if I'd smelt something rotten, my eyes drooped downwards in a depressing, dogish way. The cuffs around my neck hung down an inch too long and were covered in grimy, dark dirt tbat saturated the whiteness of it.
Monster. Demon. Wizard of the dead. The townsfolk called me when I ventured beyond my small home at the top of a hill inside of a dead, spruce filled forest.
In the end of it, the Nuns were the worst. They weaved their ropes around me so tight I became blind, surrounded by the white lines of silky web covered in drops of my own blood.
Blood. The red dot that glistened when it was held under a light, it grew into a river then turned into an ocean.
I hated blood. I hated the way it flowed like it wasn't born from pain. It seeped down in a spiral of reddish black. Swirling, swirling down.
Hands bled, they bled the blood that you lost and carried it underneath their tainted fingernails. Oh, how I hate hands and their soft sinful nature.
