LONDON
Hands.
We don’t consider them enough.
Taken for granted, our hands don’t get the attention and recognition they deserve. Rather, we abuse them. Use them to abuse. Fondle our fat, loathing our bodies, especially women. We pluck and tug at our face, cursing the years. Never once acknowledging their beauty and strength—those precious instruments that enable us to do almost anything.
I notice mine now. Shaking and cold. The ugly beveled grooves from wrapping my fingers with string over the years. I use my thumb to smudge off the dirt that perspiration hasn’t completely sweated away, revealing the faded black ink along the side of my palm.
My voice cracks on a laugh. I stare at the tattooed key on my flesh until my eyes blur. Sweat leaks into their corners, a biting sting like a needle piercing my vision clear.
Then I look up at all the dangling keys.
A canopy of gleaming silver and bronze and rusted metals held aloft by red string—a blanket woven of blood in the sky. The keys clang together, playing a dark, chiming melody that chills me to the bone.
He knows me.
In my vanity, I concealed the ugly and vile. And yet he saw.
In my profession, your past can be as damning as a wrong diagnosis. Shame is the conception of most sins against ourselves.
A wail rips through the canopy, and I can feel the agony in the gutturalness of it. A scream wrenched from an abyss of never-ending pain. It forces my hand into the air.
I teeter on the rock, bare feet gripping the serrated edge of stone, as I reach for the first key.
Forgive me.
