Flash fiction

It moves as if its mine. I think-it moves. As if its my own. It is my own. I paid for it.

The government is saying ‘Epidemic’. No one is listening. I had it done deliberately. It is bright and shiny and silver. I am super strong. Well at least my left hand is. The whole arm in fact. Titanium.  Only the hand is fully replaced, the rest is a kind of internal circuitry. I have kept my bones and my nerves. It’s just that the bones have been reinforced.

I like the sound it makes as each finger taps on the table. Mechanical. Fascinating.  The man across the way is looking at me. Staring. Fear.

He is afraid. Of me.

I like the way it sounds as it crunches against the glass when I pick it up. It is self defence. I have a weapon. Its also useful for jam jars too..

Technically it is illegal for a woman to have her hand cut off and replaced with a titanium hand. ‘Epidemic’.  It’s illegal because there have been problems??? They haven’t passed a law yet on wielding a hand with menace but I’m sure they will soon.

It’s super advanced. It responds to my command but it has 5, 6 times the strength of a human hand. I need a permit for it. I have a very good forgery.

I love the way it feels. How quickly it responds. I can see the man across the way wants to see the permit.  He won’t ask. I have seen this before. He won’t follow me home anymore either.

I get up to leave. I see the waitress admire my hand. I flex it. It is amazing. I get on my bike. Hassle me on my bike and I can rip the door off your car. I love this hand.

I see the officers ahead of me. They hail me down. I have been here before too. I stop.

They asked to see my papers for this hand. I use ‘this hand’ to do it. To prove to them how dexterous it is. How magnificent. It is a weapon. I hand over the papers. Forged. I had this done deliberately, did I tell you? Wouldn’t you? Even the odds. Well not so much even, as tip them in your favour.  

I can see the female officer admiring my hand. The truth is it just works differently, better when it is attached to the female brain. Something about size or scale or something. There is a science but I haven’t bothered with it too much. It doesn’t work so well, something to do with the male body rejecting it all the time.

They say its like pregnancy. To be pregnant the human body has to accept the foetus on a physiological level. Female bodies can do this. Male bodies can’t. My body is capable of thinking I am pregnant with a titanium hand. I can never actually fall pregnant now but it seems like a small price to pay for safety. Although I think I have gone beyond safety.

I can smell his fear. This officer. He doesn’t know what to do. He senses the papers are a forgery. His partner, she looks unconcerned. This is where the system has fallen apart. She is indifferent. He is scared. He knows I can simply end his life with one single slap from this hand. It’s as simple as that.

He nods. She nods. They let me go. That’s how it is. This hand. It changes everything.

I don’t look like her. Her hair goes swish. Mine still has lime green highlights. I know her teeth are white. Bright. Her lips lined. Eyelashes clad. Nails polished red. The clothes just tight enough, just short enough. Shoes strapped just right around her ankles.

My nails are blue and yellow and green. Rainbow nails. My clothes are. Unusual.  Trainers.

He is classic. Chiselled. Chino’ed. They are perfect together.

She looks over her shoulder at me. Eyes moving up and down me. Disdain. Turns her head back. Where are my pert parts? Nothing is pert. At least not pert enough. My piercings not to her taste. She leans in to him. Says something. He looks at me. Says something back. They giggle. Together. I look at them both. A shared disdain.  For me.

They whisper. He leans into her. Eyes close. Mouths open. Heads at angles. On the tube.

Seriously. I look away. Look back. Drawn.  He is. They are. Eyes flick open. Still kissing. His tongue down her throat. Eyes. Hers closed.  His open. Looking at me. I look at him. My eyes. His eyes. Lock. That look. Mine.  I see. She does not. Not disdain. That other word. I see that other word in his look. I look away.

The doors open. I get off the tube.

Lust. Betrayal is always unnerving.

 I look at their hands. I’ve seen this a thousand times before.

She sits. He sits. She talks. Softly. Quietly. He talks. He talks some more. She starts to say. He talks. Over the top. She starts to say. He starts gesticulating. He is getting louder. The movement of his arms wider. His rightness taking up the whole space in this café. He is definitely right.

She says something. Softly. He briefly makes eye contact. She looks down. Away. I can hear his every word now. His points dotted with expletives. I look at their hands again. His flinging widely in the air. Hers neatly held in her lap. Then on the table. Hands.

He is still loud. The broad sweep of his gestures taking up all of our space. His legs splayed apart under the table. Sitting back. Mouth open. Words spewing out. He must be right.

She starts to say something again. He keeps talking. We are the only customers in the café. He is oblivious to my presence. She is not. Blushing. Embarrassed. He is even louder and the waitress is watching. He doesn’t care. He is definitely right.

I dig around in my bag. A business card. I stand up. There is no point in prolonging my stay. I have seen this before.

I stop as I am passing their table. I hand her my business card. I only say two words, ‘For you.’

She looks down at it. Smiles. He has barely drawn breath. Does not notice.  I walk out. I look back.

She is still looking at my business card, T. Latte, Divorce Lawyer.

Words elude me. I sit quietly. The world is passing me by. As if this bench is drifting on the open sea. I look at the words on the page. My words. A different page. How did this happen?

A thief. He wanted to shake my hand. I know thieves. I did not shake his hand.

It’s like he reached in and took them out. One by one. These words on this page. My words. His name. I am shaking. Not his hand.

This bench is floating out across the sea. My words. Separated from me. Someone else using my voice. His voice speaking my words. Accolades. Prizes. Not mine. His.

My only consolation. In his smug little mind, there can only be silence. He is not upon the sea. He remains in the mud. With a target on his back.

Arrows run straight and true when fired from the crest of a wave.

I buzz the door. No one answers. I look at the card. It’s not my card. It’s not my building. I swipe the card. Push. Open. Enter. I am wearing heels. Well dressed. Smart. Suited. I hear my heels.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

On the tiles, in the entrance hall. I record the sound on my phone. For later.

There is carpet here too. Shoes off. I walk across the carpet. Plush. I can see vague footprints. Mine next to another. Smaller. You never look down at your carpet do you? Never really see the faint outline of feet. People are careless. I watched. Dropped. I found.

I run my fingers along the shelving. Dust. I sit on the couch. Nice. It’s a nice couch. Not to my taste. But nice. I turn on the TV. Daytime TV. I pick up the DVD case. The last one watched. I open it. I don’t quite close it. Put it down again.

The kitchen. I go in. Shoes on.

Click.

Clack.

On those shiny tiles. I open the fridge. I touch the bottle of milk. I pluck a cherry tomato from the stash in the fruit bowl. Tasty. I feel the oranges too. Round. Juicy. I like oranges. But I only touch. I open a drawer. No one will know I have been here.

I look in the drawer. Neat. Organised. Something catches my eye. Blue. A blue plastic potato peeler. I don’t own. Well. I do own. Now. I will keep it safe. I look in the bathroom. I look at my watch. How long has it been? Minutes. I put my hand on the sink, just to see the colour of my nails against the porcelain.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

On the tiles. Time to go now. I will drop the card outside your door.

I didn’t use your toilet. That would be weird.