Bedbugs Read Free

the trash bag into the freezer under the frozen peas and carrots, and tried to forget about them. Of course, that didn’t work because I knew they were there, and I knew sooner or later what I was going to do with them.
     
    A s it turned out, the next night after work, I took the plastic bag out of the freezer and defrosted the frozen hands. The skin was as pale as polished white marble. What I did was throw them into a pot of boiling water. You have to understand, I had no idea if what I was planning to do was really going to work. I mean, I figured it would because skin is so tough, but you never know until you try something.
    After boiling the hands for a while, I took them out with some tongs, got the sharpest paring knife I could find, and made a nice, deep incision all the way around each wrist, a few inches above the thumb joint, right about where you wear a wristwatch. It took some doing to hold onto the skin because it was so slippery. Pretty tough, too, but once I got a good grip on it with the tongs, the skin peeled right off, turning inside out like I was removing a glove or a dirty sock Of course, there was no blood involved. I had a little problem with the skin tearing around the fingernails, but nothing serious.
    When I was done and turned them back right-side out, I had two pretty close to perfect gloves made out of my brother’s hands. I put them down on the counter, and I swear to God I thought they might start moving around on their own or something.
    My biggest concern was that they wouldn’t fit—that Derrick and I weren’t still exactly the same size; but with a little bit of tugging and a few tiny slits here and there to loosen them up, I was able to pull them on over my own hands.
     
    M an, I’m telling you, I could barely contain my excitement as I raised my new hands up in front of my face and looked at them. I flexed the fingers, thrilled by the taunt pulling of my new skin.
    It was exquisite beyond belief!
    My hands—Derrick’s hands, really—were trembling as I reached out to touch something . . . for the first time . . . with someone else’s hands.
    I picked up the paring knife I had used to cut and peel the skin. Turning it back and forth, I hardly noticed the light reflecting off the blade because I was so entranced by the way the skin on the back of my hands shifted with every subtle movement.
    I can’t tell you how excited I was, but I stopped myself because I knew I had other things to take care of, first.
    Unrolling my new skin gloves, I carefully laid them aside while I cleaned up. It took a bit of doing, but I scraped most of the flesh off the bone before grinding everything up in the garbage disposal. The bones knocked around some, making quite a racket, but I made sure it all washed down completely. Then I took my new hands—because that’s the only way I could think of them—and went into my work room.
    I tell you, I was so excited I was dizzy. I felt like I was drunk or tripping or something as I pulled the skin gloves back on over my own hands and wiggled my fingers to make sure everything fit perfectly.
    Custom made!
    Once I was ready, I picked up a pencil, tacked a clean sheet of drawing paper to the drawing board, and began to draw.
    At first I couldn’t stop staring at the back of my hands.
    Just like when I was a kid, I watched the skin shift and slide across my muscles and tendons as I drew. I was amazed how the skin still felt supple and alive. I could almost feel it bonding with the flesh of my own hands—my less talented hands.
    This is it! I told myself— the moment I’ve been waiting for my whole life! I’m going to draw what I see inside my own head with someone else’s hands!
    But it didn’t work out quite as I’d planned.
    The sketch I started working on that night still seemed flat and uninspired. The spark wasn’t there. I had to remind myself that I was too excited, that I was distracted by watching the way my new hands moved; but deep inside,