Finally got around to it

I had an idea a couple months ago for a short story about a man who is in a mental hospital and thinks his hands are disappearing. Anyone remember that? Anyway, I decided start writing it. Here's what I've got so far:


Today they are passing out thick sticks of charcoal and rough-textured drawing paper. Miss Waverly, the drawing lady, said we could draw anything we wanted. I pick up the black stick. It feels strangely light and awkward in my hand. I have to be very careful now when I am drawing, to get the picture to come out right. I want to draw my hand, but not like it is now. Like it was before they locked me away.

I start carefully, the thumb first, with its elegant curve across the back of the nail, and the bony, knobby knuckle. Then the wide, square shape of the palm and its thick lines: life line, heart line, head line. I make the lines especially dark and heavy, like they are on my hand in the right lighting. Then the other fingers, long and thin with the same knobby knuckles as my thumb, thin, delicate lines where they bend, squared-off fingertips; a man’s hand. I work slowly, trying to make every line perfect. Trying not to forget anything this time.

Miss Waverly has been strolling through the room, examining the patients’ artwork. She pauses at my table and bends over to get a better look as I work on the shading. I look up expectantly at her, marveling at how pretty she is, with her large brown eyes and straight dark hair that falls just to her shoulders. She gazes at my drawing. My heart beats just a little faster. She is so pretty, I think. I hope she likes my picture. Maybe I will give it to her if she does. After a moment, she catches my eyes and asks, “Why are you drawing with your left hand again? I thought you were right-handed.”

I look down and sigh. “Because,” I explain, exasperated, “my right hand’s going away again.” I don’t know why she asks these questions every time. I’ve told her about my problem before. She hums thoughtfully and points one small, delicate finger at my drawing.

“Did you notice that some of the fingers are missing?” she asks. I look back down at my picture in disbelief. I was so sure I’d done it right this time, that everything was there, but as I count the fingers, I see that there are only three. There is nothing I can do but stare at the drawing, speechless with dismay. After a moment or two, Miss Waverly smiles and pats my shoulder, then starts towards the next table.

After she leaves, I hold my right hand up in front of my face. Two fingers are missing today, my ring finger and my pinkie, the same digits that are missing from my drawing. With a sigh I set down the charcoal on my desk. I will have to try harder tomorrow.