Did Someone Lose an Appendage?
When I was 14-years old I woke up and found an arm laying on the bed next to me.
It was an uneventful evening, I'm sure, mostly because I was a dorky 14-year old who wore purple plastic framed glasses à la Sally Jessy Raphael. I didn't do much of anything. Ever. Except sit all angsty and moody in my room, wondering why I resembled more of a zoo animal and nothing at all like the girls on the cover of Seventeen. And also I hadn't started boozing it up at that stage in my life, so really I'm pretty certain I had spent the evening watching the Cosby Show and picking fights with my siblings. Then I went to bed. Completely sober.
My eyes fluttered awake, my bedroom washed in the soft pinks of an early sunrise. *sigh* Another ordinary, uneventful day I thought, turning my head to the left to see what time was displayed on my alarm clock.
And that's when I saw it. Holy shit! What the hell is that?! IT'S A FREAKING HAND!! (Sorry for cussing in my thoughts, Mom. I didn't swear at that stage in my life, I swear. I saved that for when I started boozing many years later.)
On my pillow, right next to my head, right where my eyeballs were staring, was a hand. Palm face up. Fingers slightly curled. Almost touching my head.
ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod!
I wanted to scream. But what if the psychopath that put the hand there was still in my bedroom? What if he had a knife? Or an axe? ohmygod! What do I do?
Ok. Stay calm.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Turn your head slowly and look around the room.
Do you see anyone else?
Does anything look out of place?
No.
Ok. That's a good sign.
What if the whole family was murdered?
Stop thinking like that!
Ok. You're going to have to get out of the bed and call 911.
Turn to the left again. Is the hand still there?
YES! OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!
Calm down, dammit! You're not going to be any help like that.
Ok. Slowly now - quiet - we don't want to alert the murderers that you're awake. You have to move the hand.
NO I DON'T WANT TO!
You have to. We have to get out of this room.
Now, take your right hand and slowly pick up the hand...
My right arm felt like concrete inching across by body to get to the lifeless hand sitting on my pillow.
OHGOD!
It's okay.
IT FEELS COLD! OHMYGODOHMYGOD!
You're doing fine... move the hand and we can slide out of bed.
It's HEAVY! OHMYGOD IT'S HEAVY!
You're doing fine... we have to call 911....
AAGGGGGHHHH!!!!! THE WHOLE ARM IS HERE! IT'S STILL ATTACHED TO THE ARM!!!!!
You idiot. That's your arm. You fell asleep on it.
For the next 45 seconds I had fun lifting up my numb arm and watching it plop onto the surface of the bed, completely unfeeling. Then the sensation of feeling crept back in, which felt like someone was pumping a thousand nails in my arm with a power nailer. That wasn't as cool.
It was an uneventful evening, I'm sure, mostly because I was a dorky 14-year old who wore purple plastic framed glasses à la Sally Jessy Raphael. I didn't do much of anything. Ever. Except sit all angsty and moody in my room, wondering why I resembled more of a zoo animal and nothing at all like the girls on the cover of Seventeen. And also I hadn't started boozing it up at that stage in my life, so really I'm pretty certain I had spent the evening watching the Cosby Show and picking fights with my siblings. Then I went to bed. Completely sober.
My eyes fluttered awake, my bedroom washed in the soft pinks of an early sunrise. *sigh* Another ordinary, uneventful day I thought, turning my head to the left to see what time was displayed on my alarm clock.
And that's when I saw it. Holy shit! What the hell is that?! IT'S A FREAKING HAND!! (Sorry for cussing in my thoughts, Mom. I didn't swear at that stage in my life, I swear. I saved that for when I started boozing many years later.)
On my pillow, right next to my head, right where my eyeballs were staring, was a hand. Palm face up. Fingers slightly curled. Almost touching my head.
ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod!
I wanted to scream. But what if the psychopath that put the hand there was still in my bedroom? What if he had a knife? Or an axe? ohmygod! What do I do?
Ok. Stay calm.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Turn your head slowly and look around the room.
Do you see anyone else?
Does anything look out of place?
No.
Ok. That's a good sign.
What if the whole family was murdered?
Stop thinking like that!
Ok. You're going to have to get out of the bed and call 911.
Turn to the left again. Is the hand still there?
YES! OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!
Calm down, dammit! You're not going to be any help like that.
Ok. Slowly now - quiet - we don't want to alert the murderers that you're awake. You have to move the hand.
NO I DON'T WANT TO!
You have to. We have to get out of this room.
Now, take your right hand and slowly pick up the hand...
My right arm felt like concrete inching across by body to get to the lifeless hand sitting on my pillow.
OHGOD!
It's okay.
IT FEELS COLD! OHMYGODOHMYGOD!
You're doing fine... move the hand and we can slide out of bed.
It's HEAVY! OHMYGOD IT'S HEAVY!
You're doing fine... we have to call 911....
AAGGGGGHHHH!!!!! THE WHOLE ARM IS HERE! IT'S STILL ATTACHED TO THE ARM!!!!!
You idiot. That's your arm. You fell asleep on it.
For the next 45 seconds I had fun lifting up my numb arm and watching it plop onto the surface of the bed, completely unfeeling. Then the sensation of feeling crept back in, which felt like someone was pumping a thousand nails in my arm with a power nailer. That wasn't as cool.
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