Enemy Hands (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Enemy Hands

The physical features of what he had to deny, of what was begat by the
Shadowy realms of insanity, were gnarled, aged ten-fingered albatrosses. He stared at the creases and wrinkles adorning his hands. A whisper of rage, a teardrop in contention with the act of bloodthirsty desire. Where was his salvation, he thought. Slender realms of light shorn to shadow and silhouette. He turned the faucet on and watched the water pour into the drain, whirling a tiny tempest in warm spray. He caressed the cascade and the water burned his hands. The heat reminded him of his awareness, his awakened passion for simple release. Old hands, young heart in speed and by the slow ticking of the clock. He sighed; what quiet decision had the fates handed him.
A terrific melody of echoing remembrance, rings and betrothal, What had he done? In guilty quests and angry passage, What had he done, he asked himself. The fact was he was wearing enemy hands and frail will. What bond have I accepted with these vile appendages? The act, the moment of contrition would defer the vision. Swinging the lamp, heavy gilded and with a crushing result, her head, his wife’s head had, “Gone South.” he whispered, “She’s gone south.” He paused picking up the hacksaw, bloody and already used to terrible conclusions. What in contrition, he thought. He reflected calmly and in a brief moment of understanding, he found love and an apology for the act. How would he cauterize the wounds? How would he lift the red hot frying pan to his handless wrists? How? He swallowed hard as he placed the hacksaw on the backside of his right wrist. Forgiveness, he thought. Enemy hands, enemy hands, he clenched his jaw in determination and the saw worked as he attacked the enemy.