I looked down at my hands. They were lying in my lap like lifeless birds of prey. They had done their job - now they rested, waiting. The chair I sat on was wooden - very cold, very wooden - it didn't yield me any comfort. Around me people talked, they made plans, they made plans for me. They looked at me fleetingly - the same way you might look at a beggar in front of your house leaning on your Jag. When my eyes met theirs, they withdrew, they looked away - scared, scared - they couldn't grasp my thoughts...they couldn't understand how such a thing could be done - how anyone could even think of...

I fidgeted in my seat - I didn't want to be here - I didn't want to be anywhere else, but especially not here. I looked back down at my hands - they had washed all the blood off, I hadn't felt anything - just cold, very cold. They had scrubbed me too; I just sat there and let them do it - I watched the water drain away - red - like a summer sunset drowned in a river, it flowed - it ran - it stained the sides of the bleach-white tub. It left distinct unpleasant yellow stains wherever it went - like me, it made people uncomfortable - it was imperfect. The chairs' wooden handles bit into my elbows - my hands shivered gently on and off, the way babies shiver when they sleep outside on summer evenings.

No one had spoken to me except for once - he had been here, he said many things to everyone. He didn't look at me; He never looked at me...I think he said "I'm sorry" - I wasn't listening. I listened to the locusts sing - they sing the loudest just before they die. I look back down at my hands. The noises around me fade, the people fade - even he fades. I see only my hands - pink, faded, lifeless - I clench them and watch the muscles strain against the white cloths around my wrists.

© Trincoll Journal, 1995.