Unclean Hands
Thursday, February 23, 2006
It was not the sight of a woman shackeled to a tree in his dream that had so unnerved him. But a bestial urge to devour and rip her limb from limb with his own teeth, held in moratorium only by a thin veneer of morality and conscience. Yet for how long? The other waxed stronger and stronger, night after night. He could sense this, as well as his own weakening grip. The metal worker lifted his hands several times, watching the flex of sinew as he alternately his splayed fingers then balled them into fists.
Identical they were, to his hands in the dream.
Identical they were, to his hands in the dream.
Murderous hands.
