He watched her in her deepest sleep.

She was no longer

His favourite ballerina

She was now, instead,

A side effect

Of this war.

He watched her in his mind

Her rosy lips untainted

By the taste of death.

He painted,

Inside his head,

A life without her.

It was,

A future that lacked colour

A past that would hurt

To live with.

At three, she had wanted to be a firefighter.

At five, a pilot

Riding above the sun by day

Ambitious girl, wasn’t she?

At seven she became a corpse,

That died in vain.

The tanks in the streets came rolling

She turned into the ricochet

Of a gunshot

Into the ricochet of a thousand gunshots

All of them searing holes

Into his life.

He watched her choke-

He watched her choke

To death.

Eventually,

She let go

And buckled

Under the weight of a hundred cannon balls

Under an army of soldier’s boots

Their shoes going crunch crunch

Over a city of broken bones.

He watched her being tossed,

Atop a tangled mesh

Of white and red remains

The stench of human flesh,

Unrestrained, rose and

Slowly kissed her

Her blood-stained ballet shoes

Were snatched

From her feet

By soldiers

And given to someone else’s sister.

1999.

A champagne party.

She watches Harrison stroke his scrupulously trimmed French beard for a flicker of a second before his lips slip into a smile. He bends forward, and cracks another one of those entrepreneurial jokes that makes everyone in the room erupt into a cascade of laughter. Then he reclines backward, pleased at himself, and blows out a smoke ring that reeks of Afghani hashish.

His wife Melissa, sits across him at the other corner of the room, watching him cater to their guests: the city’s elite coupled with a sprinkling of bourgeoisie. She marvels at how he has a way with people, just like he has a sophisticated way of twirling his cigarette between his fingers.

“He’s quite charming, isn’t he?” Anna drops into the plush leather armchair beside her. The unexpected compliment makes Melissa smile.

“Yes, that he is,” she says, and makes a mental note of the moment.

Harrison Oscar. 31. Quite undeniably, a business executive at the epitome of his career. He had built the castle of his fortunes with his own bare hands, starting off as an average salesman, and evolving into one of Los Angeles’ most prosperous gentlemen. Of course, the wealth that he had amassed came from his dealings with some notorious sources, including a drug ring that dominated North Alabama and a psychopathic real estate tycoon accused multiple times of larceny, but these were secondary businesses. His multinational, ‘Harrison & Co.’, had garnered for him his real millions.

‘Thwack.’ The sound reverberates through the room. Melissa’s eyes widen. She had seen Harrison lift his hand up into the air and slap the wife of investor Reuben Doyle right in the face.

Static makes its way into the atmosphere. People fall speechless.

Then the uncanny, shocked silence is broken by the outraged voice of Mr. Doyle, as if a wave has suddenly crashed at shore.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT WAS THAT FOR?” he almost yells.

Melissa can see that his face has swollen up into the likeness of a red tomato.

Harrison staggers backward. “I–I don’t know.” His tongue fumbles in incomprehension.

“You don’t know?” Mr. Doyle grabs Harrison by the arm. “What is this Mr. Oscar? Why did you hit my wife? Answer me!” he demands.

Harrison chokes over his words, “I didn’t intend to hit her. I am so very sorry. My hand- ” he stops short, and looks down at his outstretched hand, turning it over as if it were some strange object that he did not recognize. “I felt as if I had lost control of it.”

This statement makes Mr. Doyle extremely and uncontrollably angry. He bellows, “What rubbish is this! You have insulted me Harrison. You have insulted us. For some goddamned reason that I cannot fathom.”

“Come Henrietta, we are leaving. This man is out of his mind.” He leads his flabbergasted wife, her face still flushed with embarrassment, out of the room.

Melissa gets up and rushes over to Harrison, whose expression is contorted into shades of shock and bewilderment. “Are you alright, Harrison? What just happened?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I suddenly lost control of my arm.”

She feels the eyes of everyone in the room gliding over them. “We’ll talk about this later,” she says.

One month later.

Her dreams are disturbed by a constant, repetitive sound that steals her from her slumber. As wakefulness sets in, she becomes conscious that the noise is originating from her left. She sits up and squints against the lamplight, and tries to locate the source of the annoying tapping that seems to be coming from God-knows-where. Harrison is asleep.

Then she sees it.

His fingers are dancing around on the bedside table, his nails going clickety-click clickety click on the wood, as if his left hand seems to have acquired a mind of its own.

A bubble of fear rises up inside her gut, and makes its way up to choke her throat. The tapping gets louder. She gulps.

“Harrison?” her voice croaks. She receives no response. “Harrison!” his name comes out of her gasping mouth as a little shriek this time.

The dance continues.

He wakes up.

“Babe? What’s wrong? What’s that noise?” He sits up, alarmed.

“Harrison, what is your hand doing?!” Melissa points at it, her face ashen.

“Nothing. I-” He looks down at his left hand, which is still tapping the table. “I can’t stop it,” he says confusedly. She sees him struggling to overpower his own body.

The bubble of fear that has risen up inside her now explodes.

“Oh my God!” she screams, “You’re possessed!” and springs up from the bed and begins to back away from him.

“What? No-”

“Stay away. Stay away from me,” she warns, looking around for some way to defend herself.

In the dim light, he can see that she looks crazed.

“Melissa. Melissa! Please. Calm down. It’s alright. It’s probably neuromuscular or something,” he says.

“What? Oh.” He voice falters. “Oh,” she says again, trying to absorb this. “I’m so sorry. I just got freaked out.”

“It’s okay. Come here,” he says reassuringly. “Go to sleep. We’ll go to a doctor tomorrow, I promise. It’s probably tetany.”

“Yeah,” she says. She still looks shaken.

“I apologize for frightening you. I would never hurt you Melissa,” Harrison tells her.

When they drift back to sleep, their dreams are haunted by the sound of flesh dancing.

Two days later.

The doctor said that Harrison had become afflicted with Alien Hand Syndrome, a psychiatric disorder in which patients sometimes performed involuntary movements that were outside their control.

“Uncle Harrison, I want to play with those dice too,” Benny, says. Benny, the nephew of the Oscars, was visiting.

“Oh Benny, Uncle can’t let you play with these,” says Harrison.

“Why not?” Benny implores.

“Because Uncle has a disease Benny, and he must keep his hand occupied.”

This explanation probably makes no sense to Benny, because Benny’s world is free of any monsters that lurk hidden in the shadows, waiting to strike.

Eventually.

Mr. Oscar’s left hand developed a fair share of enmity toward its respective other. Buttoning clothes became a futile process, one quickly undone by his alien hand. The same occurred for any other actions that the hand did not ‘like’. It would snap up like a dragon when provoked.

Sometimes Harrison liked to call it his ‘little alien’ and sometimes he would get annoyed at it when it got in the way.

The tapping continued.

The visit.

Harrison’s mother greatly resembled a stuffed vulture, except for the fact that she had an enormous silver perm atop her head, and hadn’t quite started balding yet.

She strides into the room, her eyes scanning it for her devious son, a Bible pressed to her chest.

“Where is the sinner?” she proclaims loudly.

“I have no sins, Mother,” he says cheekily, and flashes a Cheshire grin towards her.

“Don’t ye mock the Lord, Harrison,” she admonishes. “We have a shameless sinner!” she declares to the room.

Melissa, who is sitting on Harrison’s lap, chuckles.

“I have come to talk to you about your hand, son. It is a sign from the Lord that you stop your evil dealings in the cocaine business.”

“May your Lord bless you Mother. I am not a drug lord,” he says amusedly.

“Scoundrel. Scoundrel.”

Seven months later.

8 pm.

Melissa is sitting up in bed, reading. Harrison is working on his laptop next to her.

She feels a light touch on her arm. “Your little alien wants to play with me?” she says, smiling.

In a flash, the ‘little alien’ has gripped her throat. She cannot speak. She gags. Her thoughts are trapped in the space between life and death. She can hear Harrison screaming at the top of his lungs. Her own lungs are screaming for air.

The door slams open. The butler rushes in and pulls Harrison off her. She feels his hand resist. It grates away at her throat and its fingers wriggle, trying to claw their way back to suffocate her.

She bursts into tears.

Shock seeps deep into her mind and she stutters, “You promised you would never hurt me.”

“Oh my God Melissa! I am so sorry! I didn’t do it on purpose!” he tries to justify himself in a weak voice.

“You just tried to kill me Harrison!” she exclaims and runs out of the room sobbing.

The tapping continues.

The little alien was no longer given any respect in the Oscar household. Harrison grew increasingly frustrated at it, and began to loathe this part of his own body. Furthermore, Melissa became distant towards him, because somewhere deep in her subconscious mind she probably believed that Harrison was at fault for what his hand had tried to do to her.

The doctor advised that Harrison chain his hand to his bedside table at night to prevent any further ‘attacks’.

Next year.

It so came to pass that the proud, lively entrepreneur lost more than three quarters of his worth. A quarter due to bad investments and half because of some sloppy signatures that he claimed he did not make. His competitors, all of whom knew about his disorder, made fun of him at the tables, jesting that that he was using his disease to cover for bad decisions.

Harrison swivelled into depression as swiftly as he had climbed up the ladder to success. His long nights became infiltrated by deep draughts of cocaine that the cartel sent to him as gifts, and he began to feel the ‘punishment of the Lord’ set in.

The last time.

She watches the chains break, as if the one who has broken them has superhuman strength. She staggers backward toward the wall, and then feels her husband’s hammer hit her skull. The last thing she remembers is her head splitting open and a gush of warm blood in her mouth.

He bends over his wife’s carcass, wailing with grief. He is maddened. He begins to rip at his own hair.

Anguish lights up his whole body and swallows up his mind.

He gets up, foaming at the mouth, and yells “I’LL OBLITERATE YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”

He picks up the knife, and aims it at his own ‘little alien’, but it lashes out. It grabs the knife. There is a struggle of flesh against flesh.

In the end, he manages to press the knife down on his left wrist.

Harrison Oscar faints.

The alien has left.

When he wakes up at the hospital, the doctors tell him that he had severely damaged his left hand and they had had to remove it.

No more dice. No more dancing.

1999.

A champagne party.

She watches Harrison stroke his scrupulously trimmed French beard for a flicker of a second before his lips slip into a smile. He bends forward, and cracks another one of those entrepreneurial jokes that makes everyone in the room erupt into a cascade of laughter. Then he reclines backward, pleased at himself, and blows out a smoke ring that reeks of Afghani hashish.

His wife Melissa, sits across him at the other corner of the room, watching him cater to their guests: the city’s elite coupled with a sprinkling of bourgeoisie. She marvels at how he has a way with people, just like he has a sophisticated way of twirling his cigarette between his fingers.

“He’s quite charming, isn’t he?” Anna drops into the plush leather armchair beside her. The unexpected compliment makes Melissa smile.

“Yes, that he is,” she says, and makes a mental note of the moment.

Harrison Oscar. 31. Quite undeniably, a business executive at the epitome of his career. He had built the castle of his fortunes with his own bare hands, starting off as an average salesman, and evolving into one of Los Angeles’ most prosperous gentlemen. Of course, the wealth that he had amassed came from his dealings with some notorious sources, including a drug ring that dominated North Alabama and a psychopathic real estate tycoon accused multiple times of larceny, but these were secondary businesses. His multinational, ‘Harrison & Co.’, had garnered for him his real millions.

‘Thwack.’ The sound reverberates through the room. Melissa’s eyes widen. She had seen Harrison lift his hand up into the air and slap the wife of investor Reuben Doyle right in the face.

Static makes its way into the atmosphere. People fall speechless.

Then the uncanny, shocked silence is broken by the outraged voice of Mr. Doyle, as if a wave has suddenly crashed at shore.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT WAS THAT FOR?” he almost yells.

Melissa can see that his face has swollen up into the likeness of a red tomato.

Harrison staggers backward. “I–I don’t know.” His tongue fumbles in incomprehension.

“You don’t know?” Mr. Doyle grabs Harrison by the arm. “What is this Mr. Oscar? Why did you hit my wife? Answer me!” he demands.

Harrison chokes over his words, “I didn’t intend to hit her. I am so very sorry. My hand- ” he stops short, and looks down at his outstretched hand, turning it over as if it were some strange object that he did not recognize. “I felt as if I had lost control of it.”

This statement makes Mr. Doyle extremely and uncontrollably angry. He bellows, “What rubbish is this! You have insulted me Harrison. You have insulted us. For some goddamned reason that I cannot fathom.”

“Come Henrietta, we are leaving. This man is out of his mind.” He leads his flabbergasted wife, her face still flushed with embarrassment, out of the room.

Melissa gets up and rushes over to Harrison, whose expression is contorted into shades of shock and bewilderment. “Are you alright, Harrison? What just happened?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I suddenly lost control of my arm.”

She feels the eyes of everyone in the room gliding over them. “We’ll talk about this later,” she says.

One month later.

Her dreams are disturbed by a constant, repetitive sound that steals her from her slumber. As wakefulness sets in, she becomes conscious that the noise is originating from her left. She sits up and squints against the lamplight, and tries to locate the source of the annoying tapping that seems to be coming from God-knows-where. Harrison is asleep.

Then she sees it.

His fingers are dancing around on the bedside table, his nails going clickety-click clickety click on the wood, as if his left hand seems to have acquired a mind of its own.

A bubble of fear rises up inside her gut, and makes its way up to choke her throat. The tapping gets louder. She gulps.

“Harrison?” her voice croaks. She receives no response. “Harrison!” his name comes out of her gasping mouth as a little shriek this time.

The dance continues.

He wakes up.

“Babe? What’s wrong? What’s that noise?” He sits up, alarmed.

“Harrison, what is your hand doing?!” Melissa points at it, her face ashen.

“Nothing. I-” He looks down at his left hand, which is still tapping the table. “I can’t stop it,” he says confusedly. She sees him struggling to overpower his own body.

The bubble of fear that has risen up inside her now explodes.

“Oh my God!” she screams, “You’re possessed!” and springs up from the bed and begins to back away from him.

“What? No-”

“Stay away. Stay away from me,” she warns, looking around for some way to defend herself.

In the dim light, he can see that she looks crazed.

“Melissa. Melissa! Please. Calm down. It’s alright. It’s probably neuromuscular or something,” he says.

“What? Oh.” He voice falters. “Oh,” she says again, trying to absorb this. “I’m so sorry. I just got freaked out.”

“It’s okay. Come here,” he says reassuringly. “Go to sleep. We’ll go to a doctor tomorrow, I promise. It’s probably tetany.”

“Yeah,” she says. She still looks shaken.

“I apologize for frightening you. I would never hurt you Melissa,” Harrison tells her.

When they drift back to sleep, their dreams are haunted by the sound of flesh dancing.

Two days later.

The doctor said that Harrison had become afflicted with Alien Hand Syndrome, a psychiatric disorder in which patients sometimes performed involuntary movements that were outside their control.

“Uncle Harrison, I want to play with those dice too,” Benny, says. Benny, the nephew of the Oscars, was visiting.

“Oh Benny, Uncle can’t let you play with these,” says Harrison.

“Why not?” Benny implores.

“Because Uncle has a disease Benny, and he must keep his hand occupied.”

This explanation probably makes no sense to Benny, because Benny’s world is free of any monsters that lurk hidden in the shadows, waiting to strike.

Eventually.

Mr. Oscar’s left hand developed a fair share of enmity toward its respective other. Buttoning clothes became a futile process, one quickly undone by his alien hand. The same occurred for any other actions that the hand did not ‘like’. It would snap up like a dragon when provoked.

Sometimes Harrison liked to call it his ‘little alien’ and sometimes he would get annoyed at it when it got in the way.

The tapping continued.

The visit.

Harrison’s mother greatly resembled a stuffed vulture, except for the fact that she had an enormous silver perm atop her head, and hadn’t quite started balding yet.

She strides into the room, her eyes scanning it for her devious son, a Bible pressed to her chest.

“Where is the sinner?” she proclaims loudly.

“I have no sins, Mother,” he says cheekily, and flashes a Cheshire grin towards her.

“Don’t ye mock the Lord, Harrison,” she admonishes. “We have a shameless sinner!” she declares to the room.

Melissa, who is sitting on Harrison’s lap, chuckles.

“I have come to talk to you about your hand, son. It is a sign from the Lord that you stop your evil dealings in the cocaine business.”

“May your Lord bless you Mother. I am not a drug lord,” he says amusedly.

“Scoundrel. Scoundrel.”

Seven months later.

8 pm.

Melissa is sitting up in bed, reading. Harrison is working on his laptop next to her.

She feels a light touch on her arm. “Your little alien wants to play with me?” she says, smiling.

In a flash, the ‘little alien’ has gripped her throat. She cannot speak. She gags. Her thoughts are trapped in the space between life and death. She can hear Harrison screaming at the top of his lungs. Her own lungs are screaming for air.

The door slams open. The butler rushes in and pulls Harrison off her. She feels his hand resist. It grates away at her throat and its fingers wriggle, trying to claw their way back to suffocate her.

She bursts into tears.

Shock seeps deep into her mind and she stutters, “You promised you would never hurt me.”

“Oh my God Melissa! I am so sorry! I didn’t do it on purpose!” he tries to justify himself in a weak voice.

“You just tried to kill me Harrison!” she exclaims and runs out of the room sobbing.

The tapping continues.

The little alien was no longer given any respect in the Oscar household. Harrison grew increasingly frustrated at it, and began to loathe this part of his own body. Furthermore, Melissa became distant towards him, because somewhere deep in her subconscious mind she probably believed that Harrison was at fault for what his hand had tried to do to her.

The doctor advised that Harrison chain his hand to his bedside table at night to prevent any further ‘attacks’.

Next year.

It so came to pass that the proud, lively entrepreneur lost more than three quarters of his worth. A quarter due to bad investments and half because of some sloppy signatures that he claimed he did not make. His competitors, all of whom knew about his disorder, made fun of him at the tables, jesting that that he was using his disease to cover for bad decisions.

Harrison swivelled into depression as swiftly as he had climbed up the ladder to success. His long nights became infiltrated by deep draughts of cocaine that the cartel sent to him as gifts, and he began to feel the ‘punishment of the Lord’ set in.

The last time.

She watches the chains break, as if the one who has broken them has superhuman strength. She staggers backward toward the wall, and then feels her husband’s hammer hit her skull. The last thing she remembers is her head splitting open and a gush of warm blood in her mouth.

He bends over his wife’s carcass, wailing with grief. He is maddened. He begins to rip at his own hair.

Anguish lights up his whole body and swallows up his mind.

He gets up, foaming at the mouth, and yells “I’LL OBLITERATE YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”

He picks up the knife, and aims it at his own ‘little alien’, but it lashes out. It grabs the knife. There is a struggle of flesh against flesh.

In the end, he manages to press the knife down on his left wrist.

Harrison Oscar faints.

The alien has left.

When he wakes up at the hospital, the doctors tell him that he had severely damaged his left hand and they had had to remove it.

No more dice. No more dancing.