I’m relating this via a voice-to-text program because—as you’ll soon find out—I can’t use my hands.
I’m not a bad guy. I take care of my hands. I glove them when it’s cold, I don’t stick them into fire or onto the stove. Sure, I bite my nails, but who fucking doesn’t? There hasn’t been a single hand-uprising in the history of mankind, so I think it’s safe to say that they don’t mind nail-biting; it’s probably like getting a rough haircut for them, at worst. Anyway, I keep them lotioned, probably more so than you, if you catch my drift. The point is, my hands aren’t being put through the shit on a daily basis. I wouldn’t say that I treat them with respect—they’re fucking hands—but I’m not testing the limits of their integrity by any means.
So, I honestly, truly, do not know why they’ve chosen to not only betray me by selfishly assuming autonomy, but actively seek out my downfall during the brief periods of this self-actualization.
It all started when I was lying in bed, listening to ASMR late at night after having woken up from sleep. It had been a fairly unrestful sleep, despite the 20MG of Melatonin I’d taken the night before; and yet I was still super tired, and figured I’d chill out in the dark for a while since I didn’t need to be anywhere in the morning.
All was going fine, I was listening to some fast tapping triggers with rainfall sounds in the background, when my hands suddenly “perked up”, in the sense that I felt them flex out and up wihtout my prompting. At first, I figured it was just some reaction to the ASMR; that the tingles had evoked a new sensory reaction; but then the hands clenched—not all the way into fists, but into rigid claw-forms. The resultant effect was admittedly menacing, and I immediately tried to re-assume control—but I couldn’t move them, couldn’t influence their actions whatsoever.
I shook my head from side to side until I dislodged my earbuds, needing complete focus on the situation….at hand. By this point, my hands had started doing really weird shit, the fingers furling and unfurling sporadically; the hands flexing and unflexing, and bobbing forward and backward on my wrists. It was bizarre, uncanny, and made me a little sick; not merely the sight of them moving of their own volition, but doing so in such a weirdly articulate way.
I also got the sense—and I don’t know how else to best relate this—that they were communicating with each other in these strange movements. That, somehow, “thoughts” were being transmitted with each spasmodic movement. They weren’t moving in accordance with one another; there was no pantomining of one hand by the other. Each hand was displaying its own manual mannerisms. It’s own personality. The left hand seemed to be the more rational one, if rationality could even be applied to such a situation; whereas the right hand, with its wild, darting, unpredictable movements, seemed to be the more impulsive and chaotically inclined one.
The situation bceame truly frightening when, for a just a moment, they ceased their movements and turned toward me; as if they’d reach a consensus on some grave matter in which I was the central topic. Then, without further acknowledgement of me, they resumed their discourse; leaving me terrified, wondering what the hell was going on.
Since previous attempts to exert control over them had been futile, I instead stood up, and I won’t deny that I felt a great relief at still having control over my legs. Apparently, the bizarre autonomy was limited to my hands.
As calmly as I could manage, I walked from my bedroom to the hall, and for a moment thought that I had failed to remove my earbuds, due to the still-remaining sound of rainfall. But a flash of lightning through a window downstairs showed that the weather had developed to match the artificial atmosphere I’d created for myself; also to eerily fit the nightmarish circumstances.
With only the intermittent lightning flashes to illuminate my progress, I made my way down the hall, to the stairs, and descended them with feigned casualness; all the while my hands flexed and clenched and splayed themselves, engaged in some frenzied debate. Reaching the landing, I briefly considered opening my front door with my feet—I’d grown quite good at that, when necessary whilst carrying food—but decided against it; the weather was only worsening, and who knows what action my hands would’ve taken if they suspected my plans to subdue them somehow.
Crossing my living room—where shadows danced and cavorted with similar uncanniness to the movements of my hands—I reached the kitchen. The window above the sink showed a tempestuous storm outside, lightning strikes happening with unneving frequency, at alarmingly close proximities to the house. Setting aside this new fear of having my house obliterated by a bolt of lightning, I returned my focus to the more immediate threat.
My goal: the freezer. I always keep my freezer as cold as possible, especially during summer; because I like to stick my face in it when I first come in from outside for a quick cool-off. Seeing as how I couldn’t call anyone (I’m not that articulate with my feet) I figured that my next best option was to freeze my hands, and hope they’d be subsequently chilled enough for me to do something more permanent, if not gain control of the situation entirely.
After three attempts to grip it with my toes, I finally grasped the fridge door and flung it open. At the sudden burst of cold air my hands stopped their activity and turned to me, and in a mutual moment of recognition, sprang to action.
Before I could plunge them into the mountains of frozen vegetables and meat, they seized me by the throat and squeezed. For a moment I was dumb, helpless, my mind absolutley frozen by the horror of it all; but something of my composure came back to me as I realized that, while I could not control the hands themselves, I could still control my arms; the muscles therein obviously much stronger than those of my hands and wrists. With little effort I pulled the hands away, but the devilish claws had sunk my (thankfully) short nails into my neck, leaving savage though non-fatal tears in the skin. Before they could muster up another attack at my throat or scratch my eyes out, I pressed them into the frozen depths of the frezzer, and held them there while they flicked and spasmed with unrestrained vehemence.
At least fifteen minutes must’ve passed before I felt them grow still. By that point I had lost pretty much all the feeling in them, and could only tell that they had ceased their movements by the lack of vibration in my arms. Carefully, I withdrew the hands, and felt both triumph and dread at seeing them blued and frosted. I didn’t want to lose the hands, but, in the moment, was happy to see them lifelessly rigid.
Since I still had no control over them, I was forced to grab an ice-pack I always keep ready with my teeth, and carry it back upstairs in my mouth.
I’ve since placed it over my hands, and am for the moment ignoring the mounting dread of not having any feeling whatsoever in the appendages. If I lose them, so be it.
This is all I really have to say, so far. I don’t know why I’ve been the subject of this madness, but I hope it’s over. If not, then….I don’t know. If they reawaken, I’ll have to subdue them with the freezer again, and I don’t know how many more times I can do that without causing serious, irreversible damage. If there is anyone out there who has dealt with such a thing before, please contact me. I could really use a helping hand.
Update:
I’m okay, now. The hands thawed out just fine, and control has been returned to me. No need to worry or reach out. We’ve taken care of the problem :)