Cambridge, MA — Four disembodied hands were found on the banks of the Charles River last week. There were three right hands and one left hand, and the skin color of the left hand didn’t match any of the others. Police investigations have spiraled into more issues.
Dangling from each disembodied wrist was a wet, broken watch, its hand stuck in the place of the time when it was first dumped into the river.
The watches read 1:00 am, 2:30 am, 4:00 am, and 5:30 am, respectively.
As my partner and I waded in the river for more hands, we quickly approached 7:00 am. I felt a tweak in my elbow, just a slight pull. My partner, Ramirez, said something was bothering him in his forearm. We were exhausted, having worked through the night, but we had no choice. We kept looking.
My hand coordination went down the drain. I kept dropping my flashlight. My fingers felt numb even though it wasn’t too cold. My palms were dry and cracking.
I noticed something under a log. I called Ramirez over to help me lift it. As we lifted, I felt some pain. My hand felt “loose”. The tendons in my fingers felt longer than before, more stretchy. It was strange, but I assumed it was just because of my tiredness.
Once we moved that log, we saw two disembodied hands in a puddle underneath, both right hands and of different skin colors.
Ramirez and I brought the hands straight to the mortician for analysis, but when we arrived, she looked at us like we were crazy.
“My God, sergeant, what happened?” she asked, “Ramirez, you too? What happened?”
“We found these by the river. Seems to be in line with the existing case.”
“Look at yourself,” she said.
Both myself and Ramirez looked down at the same time to find our right hands and watches missing, clean stumps on our arms. We felt no pain. There was no blood.
“We’ve got to get those in milk,” the mortician said as she grabbed our disembodied hands. She tried to put them into plastic baggies with milk inside, but while doing so, her own right hand loosened and fell off.
The three of us collaborated using our left hands to bag up our right hands. I don’t know if it was any use. Our tendons are hardened. Our stumps are healed, the wounds closed.
This is a disease unlike any we’ve ever seen. The river is a black hole for hands. Today, disembodied right hands line the banks of the Charles River. We don’t know why. We don’t like the smell, but cleaning up the rotting hands is not worth the risk of losing the hands we have left.
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