Lucy

I look down on my hands, folded in my lap. My fingernails are cut clean and I can see about 2mm of the white. The cuticle should be higher up the nail but I have never been one to care about my nails too much. The skin on my finger joints is slightly darker than the rest of my skin. I remember a doctor once telling me that this could be an indicator for rheumatism. Turned out it was not. It was actually nothing. Just a discoloration. Lucky me, I was told.

My knuckles are bruised on both hands. Fine lines filled with dried blood cover each one of them. They look like a rivers' delta from high above the ground, I notice. Around them, the skin is dry. Reddened. Tense.

They cleaned the bruises with alcohol. I remember watching them do it. They had poured the clear liquid directly on my hands. I remember the smell. I saw the liquid run down my hands, reaching my elbow, dripping in a constant stream to the ground. I saw the greyish concrete turn darker where the drops hit the ground. They took cotton-wool balls and Q-Tips to clean my wounds. I watched them do it thoroughly. It looked like they were pushing the things deep into my skin. I remember that some cuts started bleeding again. They poured more alcohol.

I open my hands, looking at my palms. The skin inside looks dry. I see fine lines in here, too. One of them is called a life line. I don't know which one it is.

I look at my left arm. One thick vein runs from my elbow down to my wrist, spreading into finer veins when reaching the palm of my hand. Some of them are blue others seem purple. A river's delta from high above the ground.

I look over to my right arm. No big difference here. Except they put a cannula inside the thick vein at the elbow. My eyes follow the tube to its origin. It is connected to a bag containing another clear liquid. About every three seconds an air bubble rises from the bottom of the bag to the liquids' top level.

My gaze wanders back to my hands. Around my wrists, I see black straps. It looks like plastic. Cable straps.

I move my hands further apart. The cable straps cut into my wrists. They push down the skin below. I see it. I let go and fold my hands again. The cable straps left white lines where they dug deep in to my skin. Around them the skin is red. Quite the contrast. I watch it slowly fade away.

I look at my thighs. I am wearing blue jeans. I make out dark spots on the canvas. Brownish or blackish spots, splattered all over the place. I gaze over my knees and shins. I stop at my ankles. Another pair of cable straps. I can see my feet, too. I am wearing sneakers. They are dirty. One notices that they used to be of light blue color. One notices a huge red stain on the right one, too. The mesh is damaged. It looks like a cut. I look at the left sneaker. It looks only slightly cleaner. Less red stains. And the mesh seems intact. Nevertheless, both look dusty.

I look beyond my feet. I see hands, grabbing a bar which appears to be the edge of the bed. I sit on a bed. Now that I notice, I feel cushions in my back. My gaze wanders from the hands, over the arms, to the chest, the throat and ultimately to the face. The person looks straight at me. It's a man. I see blue eyes. The pupils are dancing around. People do that when they are furious. It's called glaring. Besides that, he's got a warm skin tone, brown brows and the hint of facial hair on his cheeks and chin. His head is covered by brown hair, cut with a machine. He looks like a soldier from the movies.

<< Are you a soldier? >> I hear myself ask.

His upper body gets tense. I notice because his shoulders come down a notch and his throat gets these harsh lines of tendons coming through. His knuckles turn white as he grabs the bar tighter. He seems angry.

<< Am I a soldier? >> he asks, exhaling loudly.

<< Are you shitting me? >> he continues.