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skonen_blades“Cut the red wire”, he said. Turns out he was guessing and just wanted to look like he knew what he was doing. Bucking for a promotion. Well, he didn’t get it. I lost my hands and my face and a lot of the skin on the front of my upper torso.
They’ve done a great job of making the skin grafts look almost human but I still look like I’ve been manufactured instead of born. The skin doesn’t sweat, for instance, and it’s too thick. It’s one colour but it’s been painted to have the mottled look of every other human’s face. It’s something that you don’t really notice unless you’re missing it. Human faces are a riot of colour that always changes. Mine doesn’t.
It’s ironic that the hands I’ve been given are probably more graceful than the big mitts I used to have. I can play the piano now and the hands don’t get tired. It’s just a demo program that came with the installation. I only need to hold them in the right place over the keyboard.
They need batteries, though, and they make small little noises when they move.
It’s disconcerting to people. Kids think it’s cool but so far, no woman has really taken to me. I look at people with horrific scars from decades gone past and wonder how they ever got by but I’ve been working on a theory. I’m just as worse of as they were, regardless of recent technology.
People don’t shy away from the way a person looks with stuff like this because of their appearance. They shy away from the horrible moment in time that shaped the appearance. People who have the use of their legs, people who don’t have spectacular facial scarring, people who aren’t going to die soon, they don’t want to mingle with us ‘other side of the mirror’ people because of what we represent. We are living reminders that everything can change with one doctor’s appointment or some weak brakes or even a moment’s hesitation when crossing the street.
I look okay. I can pass for human in a dark room but I still don’t completely fool the eye and that’s the problem. It’s obvious that something hugely traumatic has happened to me.
I’ve noticed it as well in kids with emotional problems from a lifetime lived in a string of foster homes. People want nothing to do with them. Humans are still such animals inside with all the sharp senses that animals possess regardless of our attempts to blunt them. It’s obvious to us which people have suffered and we act like it’s contagious.
Not me. Not anymore. I’m on the other side and I have a lot of ‘me’ time now whether I want it or not. My friends are broken in society’s eyes and we have a great time. It’s like we’ve been given the keys to a different world. We are invisible most of the time as we walk down the street. I can see the suddenly averted glances out of the corner of my eye.
I think I’m going to start a church. Our Lady of Metal Hands. Only the pitiful and harmed need apply. I like that thought.
The phone rings. I put down the paintbrush and go to answer it.
tags
They’ve done a great job of making the skin grafts look almost human but I still look like I’ve been manufactured instead of born. The skin doesn’t sweat, for instance, and it’s too thick. It’s one colour but it’s been painted to have the mottled look of every other human’s face. It’s something that you don’t really notice unless you’re missing it. Human faces are a riot of colour that always changes. Mine doesn’t.
It’s ironic that the hands I’ve been given are probably more graceful than the big mitts I used to have. I can play the piano now and the hands don’t get tired. It’s just a demo program that came with the installation. I only need to hold them in the right place over the keyboard.
They need batteries, though, and they make small little noises when they move.
It’s disconcerting to people. Kids think it’s cool but so far, no woman has really taken to me. I look at people with horrific scars from decades gone past and wonder how they ever got by but I’ve been working on a theory. I’m just as worse of as they were, regardless of recent technology.
People don’t shy away from the way a person looks with stuff like this because of their appearance. They shy away from the horrible moment in time that shaped the appearance. People who have the use of their legs, people who don’t have spectacular facial scarring, people who aren’t going to die soon, they don’t want to mingle with us ‘other side of the mirror’ people because of what we represent. We are living reminders that everything can change with one doctor’s appointment or some weak brakes or even a moment’s hesitation when crossing the street.
I look okay. I can pass for human in a dark room but I still don’t completely fool the eye and that’s the problem. It’s obvious that something hugely traumatic has happened to me.
I’ve noticed it as well in kids with emotional problems from a lifetime lived in a string of foster homes. People want nothing to do with them. Humans are still such animals inside with all the sharp senses that animals possess regardless of our attempts to blunt them. It’s obvious to us which people have suffered and we act like it’s contagious.
Not me. Not anymore. I’m on the other side and I have a lot of ‘me’ time now whether I want it or not. My friends are broken in society’s eyes and we have a great time. It’s like we’ve been given the keys to a different world. We are invisible most of the time as we walk down the street. I can see the suddenly averted glances out of the corner of my eye.
I think I’m going to start a church. Our Lady of Metal Hands. Only the pitiful and harmed need apply. I like that thought.
The phone rings. I put down the paintbrush and go to answer it.
tags