The Parasite

My hand isn’t mine. It keeps trying to hurt me. I was able to live with it, keeping the limb numb with mountains of meds. Until today. Now, I lay on the ground, with its fingers wrapped around a serrated steak knife. Pierce, stab, over and over, slowly tearing through the layers of my skin and separating the layers of muscle from each other. It burns. I can’t breathe.

I wake up. It’s 3 hours before I die. I need to get it off. Now. I head to the garage. Chainsaw. Pull, pull, vrrrrrrr. It’s time. I bite on a cloth and cut off the parasite just above the elbow. Blood is sprayed throughout the room, trailing into circles spread from the rotation of the chainsaw to my walls. It’s done. I use a tourniquet. It hurts. I call 911, yet I pass out before I can say anything.

It’s bright. Is this heaven? No. It’s a hospital. It’s gone. I was happy for a bit. Wait. No. Nonono. That isn’t possible, I was sure I did it right. Could I have? Did I cut off my arm? No..

It reaches for a scalpel.