I Want Your Fingers

Author: Art

I’ve been running from him for years now. The sound of that of those heavy felt boots he always wears terrifies me. The man who wants my fingers. He chases me relentlessly. Nobody else sees him. He’s evil and I despise him. Little does he know, I’m planning something. If he wants my fingers, he can have them. But I know he’ll torture me before, or after. It’s in his name to do that. Maybe even his DNA. Everyday I try harder and harder to distract myself. Reading. TV. Food. Alcohol. Anything. But I can’t handle it anymore. I move homes every few months. A part of me thinks the police are working with him. Maybe they’re being forced to. Whenever I walk past them, they stare at me, with those soulless eyes. My pupils are always dilated as if I’m high. Or maybe it’s the fear. Fear is all I’ve ever known, really. I get happy after a few sips of alcohol and chocolate with some TV, but it’s too fleeting. Too fragile. Reality always hits me quickly after, and then I just feel pathetic.

Why does he want my fingers? Why not my left toe? He’s powerful. Sometimes I wonder if he just enjoys the chase. Maybe he could easily catch me right now. What if I were to stop running? I’ve been running my whole life. But the problem is, I don’t have any fingers on my left hand. He wants all of my fingers. All of them. All 10. Sometimes I cut the healed wounds on my left hand to savour the blood. What if he’s like me? What if I’m just an alien in human flesh? Or worse, a monster. Well… I’m tired. I want this to be over with. I need to find some more fingers.

I try my hardest to be kind. I’m polite. Too polite, some might say. Boringly nice. It’s painful. Painful to be like this. Sometimes I wish I was born a psychopath. Life might’ve been easier. No overwhelming amounts of empathy, no pathetic need for… whatever the hell I crave. Most people can name what they crave. Attention, validation, love. I don’t know what I crave. Perhaps it’s to have people be kind. Everyone lacks what I have. Maybe that’s also why he chose me specifically. That’s why everyone chooses me to hurt. I sometimes deliberately get into physical fights. The bruises afterwards are beautiful. Like galaxies.

The person who punches me and choked me… I had the opportunity to escape whilst they were beating me. Instead, I hugged them, crying. “You’re perfect,” I told them. I think they froze. Maybe out of confusion. I was expecting them to say “What the fuck is wrong with you?” And shove me. But no. They hugged me back and mumbled, “I’m sorry.” That “sorry” made me wonder if they were going to stab me. They didn’t. They were actually sorry. It was that warm, comforting feeling of the hug. I’d always tell people I hated hugs. I only hated hugs out of the fear of them seeing my flesh. Seeing who I really am. The feeling of vulnerability. But when you know someone has already hurt you, it’s easier to show vulnerability. I could’ve left. But I loved them. I still do. We still occasionally argue. I love the moments after the arguments. It’s the only time I feel real. In normal situations, I feel terrified. Not even terrified of him… just terrified of everything and anything. In dangerous situations, I feel calm. Right where I’m supposed to be.

It’s the knowing you’re alive. The flesh you own. The urge to just rip it all off eats at me everyday. The urge to see what’s underneath. Because I’m not really human, right? I don’t believe it. I don’t feel like one. I wouldn’t even say I feel like an alien. I feel like something that should exist, but somewhere else. It’s the way you look at others and wonder what’s underneath their flesh and if they’re even real. It’s the bandages over wounds. The feeling of being taken care of.

I’ve named him “The Taker”. I’m ready now. I have all ten fingers. I’m gonna stay here and not move. I’ll wait. That’d be, if I weren’t in a headlock as of right now. The frightening, horrifying feeling of being unable to breathe. Their blood stains my arms. The flesh on my arms, should I say. Their groans are pleasures to my ears. That is until, they bite my ear. Why? I don’t know. But the blood… it’s beautiful. It drips onto my shoulder and onto my face. Am I really gonna die here? Oh well. Maybe I’ll wake up where I’ve always been destined to be.

I hear him. Over the sounds of strangled breaths, and their pained groans, and the 5 cut off fingers all over the floor, I hear him. He’s come. He knows I’m ready. He’s going to save me. He’ll have all ten fingers.

But what if he knows they aren’t my fingers?