Mark awoke to a most terrible discovery, his left hand was wrapped around his throat. its suddenly powerful and muscular fingers digging into his throat, threatening to rip out his trachea, that is if it didn’t crush it first. Mark tried to scream but all that came out were strangled giggles. He thrashed around violently while the hand continued to squeeze the life out of him. With one swift motion, Mark sunk his teeth into the thumb of the hand, forcing it to let go.
Instinctively, Mark ran into the kitchen under the delusion that the hand would not follow him. Mark is an idiot. The hand punched him in the thigh and Mark was sent hurtling face-first into his glass coffee table that his mother and father used to do lines of coke off of. The hand continued to spider its way up to Mark’s torso and Mark let out an ear-piercing scream. His right hand stumbled around the shards of glass, looking for a suitable weapon against himself. He found a large chunk of glass and while baring his teeth drove the crystalline shard into the top of his left hand, driving it past the bones and straight through the palm.
The tip of the blade barely knicked his belly before falling lifelessly to the ground next to him. Mark breathed happily, pain and adrenaline coursing through his body as he laughed like a Santa figure. His joviality was short-lived though, as the right hand brought the blade of glass down upon his neck. The blade tore through his trachea and blood spilled out, forming a pool on the floor. From above it looked as though Mark had a crimson halo forming around his skull, the hand as he struggled for breath continued to hammer the blade of glass into his chest, over and over and over until eventually, the bulk of the blade snapped off after puncturing his lungs, liver, and just barely nicking his heart.
Mark lay on the floor, dead, bloodied, and with his left hand being cradled by his right. The right seemed to gently rub the hairy knuckles of the left as one might gently caress the hair of a lover. We may not be able to understand what connection the hands had, but they set out to kill the one thing we do know that they had in common: Mark. Fucking Mark.
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