Constant beeping. The same rhythm every time I come to consciousness . I can't open them they are held down by exhaustion even though I have been sleeping for what feels like a year. White ceiling tiles speckled with mold meet my eyes. Hunger pains my stomach and my eyes fall to what is around me. A thin sky blue blanket covers my body. I can't feel my legs but I know they are there because of the bulges coming from underneath the blankets. To my left, sunlight shines through a unkept window where a fly taps the glass looking for freedom. Multiple machines ding,beep, and flash numbers that I have no idea what they mean. The room I am in smells of disinfectant and cigarette smoke.
Mustering up enough strength, I sit up and throw my legs so that they dangle from the side of the bed. It feels as if my hands are in fists and I push once more to lift myself off the bed. Using an IV stand for support by wrapping my arm around it , I begin to walk to the door. Reaching for the handle my arm loosely taps it. Around both of my arms are bandages with strange red stains. Staring at the bandages I use my teeth to unravel them. Panic fills my veins, either my hands have shrunken to the same size of my wrist or they just aren't there. Removing the last bit of bandages I am left staring at numbs, not hands, only a mass of skin sewn together with stitches and staples. My once wide palms that trailed to my long, plump fingers, are nonexistent. All that is left is a numb that collapses upon itself with skin pulled tight from skin and stitches leading directly to my wrist.
Throwing my arms at the door I begin to beat them against the cold metal,tears stain my cheeks as my blood stains the door. This could not be real. These hands that once held my newborn child a month ago, these hands that paid for my life for 13 years making pottery. These hands that my mother told me were a gift from god. These hands that I could create busts of people,create the glorious mane of a lion. They were now taken from me. Footsteps are directly outside of the door and 3 nurses and a doctor enter, eyes filled with confusion. I don't care what they are saying, I can't help but to scream and ask what they have done with my gifts, with my hands I touched my wife with, the hands I used to build my child's nursery with.
A sharp pain stops my rampage and I am being lead back to my bed. No, I do not want to be led back to unconsciousness and confusion. I need answers.
“I thought he was never supposed to wake up?” One nurse says. What does she mean ‘not supposed to wake up? Why was I here? I was driving in the Jeep to the local supermarket to get more formula and….
Images fill my mind. The day was coming to an end but the baby was out of formula. I told Sarah not to worry about it and I would be a man and put pants on and run to Kroger, I needed more clay for my newest project anyway. It began to rain on the way but Kroger was not even a ten minute drive from our home. I rounded the corner and so did a semi truck. Everything seemed to stop and also collide into a big jumble. The crashing of metal, the screech of tires,the smell of blood and gasoline. Peering through bloodied eyes, I can only see wheels next to an engine and then a spark fall into a pool of liquid causing a ball of flames to shoot towards me. My only defense, my hands. The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils and I black out from the pain of my nails melting into the bones of my fingers.
“Please keep fighting John, Marcy and I still need you. Marcy needs a father and I need a husband". The voice was delicate, soft yet concerned it was Sarah's. I open one eye enough to see her silhouette, she is laying beside me with tiny Marcy in between us resting her beautiful brown eyes. I twitch a leg to get Sarah's attention.She looks at me and I force a smile that must have turned into a grimace.
A smile crept on Sarah's face and she called for the doctors. As they entered I let my eyes fall shut once more and focused on what they were saying. Something about years of rehab,and how I could go home in a few days. Years of rehab? What does that mean, those are years I could have used to play with my precious new child. Sarah cried into the doctor's chest and I felt myself drift into slumber once more despite wanting nothing more than to comfort her.
---Years later---
Giggles of Marcy filled my ears, she rested on my shoulders and her tiny hands held a little too tightly to my hair. Sarah sat next to me on a checkered picnic blanket with a large baby bump. Our twins were only a month away.
“Daddy I'm hungry.” Marcy said and I lowered myself down so that Sarah could remove her from my shoulders.
“Daddy can I see your hands?” Marcy asked with eyes full of wonder. I removed the prosthetics from my hands and she played with its metal joints and giggled. “Daddy you're like a cyborg” I smiled and looked up at Sarah. We were happy, hands or not.
