Hands

Today’s prompt: “Begin a story describing only two hands. Use the physical characteristics of the hands, as well as any relevant activity or movement, gesture, fidgeting, and so on, to reveal who the hands belong to.” [They’re yours, of course. Why bother with suspense?]

They started out with a frenzy of movements. Slapping, knocking against your tight surroundings as you screamed for help. Then your hands balled up into fists and struck out as you hoped against hope to escape. Your hands settled into a steady drumbeat against the wood. Your knuckles are bloodied from beating against the coffin lid. Against all odds, you managed to crack it, but you can’t seem to make a hole, not one you can crawl through. Three of your nails are torn. Splinters are embedded in most of your fingers, including under two fingernails, but you barely notice what would normally be agonizing. Your fingers worry at the fracture, dig at it, scrabble against it, loosen a few more wooden fragments. Dirt falls through the fissure and decorates your blood-crusted hands, dusting them with freshly turned soil. You begin punching the lid again, hoping more blows near the crack will widen the gap and make it spread. But now, as the oxygen depletes, your hands tremble. Your blows weaken. Your movements slow. Your fists slacken.