“I know what phantom pain feels like. I lived with it for 8 years, but this time was different.”
My eyes were red, and my clothes were dirty. I can’t even imagine what I look like.
The therapist sat cross-legged in front of me. “What made this time different?”
“Aches. Throbs. But this time it felt like something grabbed my wrist.”
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“What?”
“3 days ago. I was sleeping and felt like someone grabbed my wrist. Five fingers wrapping around my wrist. Pulling me along. I fought back and went to sleep. But I woke up standing at my front door. My hand was on the doorknob. I don’t remember ever getting up.”
“And you’re sure nothing was on your stump? No ants or irritation and no sleepwalking history.”
“None.”
“Did the pain come back?”
“Every night. It kept pulling me in the same direction. At work, I’d find myself facing east. Until one night, it got so bad that I got up and followed it.”
“You followed it? As in, the phantom pain guided you?”
“To an empty field 3 blocks down. It took me to the center and then pulled me to the ground. I was kneeling in the grass with my stump pointing at the dirt. Then it started to dig. Not my stump, but the phantom pain felt like I was digging. My nails clawed through the dirt and rock. Elbow strained. Shoulder screamed. But it kept digging. Others walked past, but I couldn’t yell for help. My back ached and I felt my fingernails bleed. They saw me kneeling in an empty field. The sun rose and the digging stopped. Then I came here.”
The therapist scanned my soil-stained clothes and jeans. My other arm was fine, but my stump was red with irritation.
“And so, the pain—”
A knock at the door.
I blinked. The room changed. The therapist, the soft lighting. All gone. I‘m not in the therapist’s office anymore. I’m at home standing at the front door. My left hand was on the door knob and my stump felt no pain.
A knock again. The door handle rattled.
“This is the police. Open the door.”
I open the door.
“Arnold Moss?”
I nod.
“We have a warrant for your arrest. We found your fingerprints at a crime scene.”
“What? Which hand?”
“Your right hand.” He paused. “From before the amputation.”
“But the hospital disposed of it? Didn’t they?”
“Sir, I don’t know. The prints were found at a construction site. East side. About a few days ago.”
I try to concentrate on my stump. No pain. Silence. The second officer’s radio crackled. He stepped into the hall. When he came back, his expression had changed. He whispered into the other officer’s ear.
“We need you to come with us now. There’s been development at the site.”
“What kind of development?”
He didn’t answer. Just kept staring at where my right arm should be.
As they led me out, I felt it. Just for a second.
In quick succession, tap-tap-tap-pause-tap-tap-tap.
SOS
Then nothing.
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