How bad could it be? It was only a little piece of metal. I hold my hand over the sink to spare the floor, but thankfully the blood has already stopped flowing. A three-inch gash runs from the fleshy part of my thumb to my wrist. I am surprised that it no longer hurts. Will I need stitches? I pull the flesh apart to see how deep the wound goes.
It is deep.
What. How.
Oh, my God.
I can’t. Think.
Deep.
Blue
The stairs rock. Sway.
I clutch my gashed hand to my stomach. The other gropes at the stair rail.
Only a small smear of blood stains my shirt. So little. And it is barely red. Is it red at all?
My feet stumble on the stairs, and I fall down three at a time.
‘Jenna?’ A distant call from the kitchen.
More stairs. And no pain. My hand doesn’t hurt.
The hallway rocks and the doorway sways. Mother and Lily are framed in light at the kitchen table.
They stop their conversation. Stare at me. Mother focuses on my shirt. The bloodstain. She begins to rise, but a single word from me stops her.
‘When?’
‘Jenna—’
‘When were you going to tell me!’ I yell. I shove my hand out in front of me. ‘What is this?’
Mother’s hand comes to her chin, half covering her mouth. ‘Jenna, let me explain—’
Lily rises. ‘You should sit down,’ she says. She steps behind her own chair and offers it.
I sit down because I don’t know what else to do. I look up at Claire. ‘What’s wrong with my hand?’ I lay it on the table and spread the gash apart with my fingers. The skin lies on a thick layer of blue. Blue gel. Beneath that is the silvery-white glimmer of synthetic bone and ligaments. Plastic? Metal composite? Mother looks away.
‘What happened?’ I ask. My voice is a whisper.
‘It was the accident,’ she says.
The accident. ‘Was it cut off?’
Mother reaches out. She lays both of her hands on my arm. ‘Jenna, darling.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It was burned. Terribly burned.’
I look at my other hand resting on the table next to the gashed one. My other perfect hand. The perfect hand that won’t lace right. The monster hand. I look at Mother. She looks like she is crumbling inward, caving like a terrible weight is pressing on her. ‘What about … this one?’ I ask, raising my other hand.
She nods.
Oh, my God. I look down, the world disappearing beyond the circle of my lap. I am suddenly so cold. My skin that has never felt right instantly feels foreign. I hear Lily move to the other side of the table. The scraping of a chair. The sigh as she sits. It all pounds in my ears. My hands twitch. I look at them. Can I even call them my hands?