Pulse

I like the way hands turn. I love that they are so soft and so tender. The swift movement of wrist swaying like water. The way I can feel every bone and tendon of it at the joint.

I love it when I feel the drum of the veins and I can almost smell it. Every hand has a different smell. Every finger has a different shape. I love the way they curl.

I have also seen some in the total state of contraction. The faces so pale and the curled hand like a masterpiece. They are so beautiful. I cannot fathom the beauty they have.

I generally like the smell of a women’s hand. The perfume they wear around their wrist is what makes my ears jump, my senses mad. The nail polish is one thing that has always interested me. Some has cracked nail polish, some nails are so clean that I can just swim in them. The pink of flesh, the pink of tips mesmerizes me.

Young women’s hands, oh the hands. You don’t believe me. I have all sorts of them. My personal collection. I have small ones, big ones, I have white ones, I have a black one, Hispanic and Indian. I am an avid collector of all. Everyone has a different smell. Everyone here has blood stored in them. I don’t go for cold hands, oh no no! They lose their beauty.

You see, they have to be perfectly preserved and kept in the perfect state for them to maintain their beauty.

It all started when I was a young boy and my mother had the most beautiful hands. Her hands were a beauty. She would not let happen to her beautiful hands ever. I was in charge of keeping her hands in the best state possible. She was a germ-o-phobe and when it comes to her hands, she mostly wore gloves all the time.

Only I was allowed to touch them. Ah, so beautiful. They were like thin ice on the lake, if I mishandle them, they will break. Her pulse was the most exciting part when I used to hold it in my hand to file the nails or just scrub them with the homemade tonic of which only my mother knew the secret ingredients. When the beat of pulse hits my tips I can sit there all day feeling it. Oh! The best part of my childhood. Then the worst came, she died and gone were the long periods of hand filing and scrubbing. My father was a carpenter so I can never get hold of his hand. Even when I do, I can never get to clean those filthy hands. I maintained my hands though. It was not so satisfying. I cannot feel the pulse. I cannot feel the warmth, the smell. It was all too much for me.

After all, I was a little kid. We were one day strolling in the nearby meadow. We, as in, me and my two cousins. I was only 12 then. Their hands were that of a savage. They were millers. I can never understand people who just don’t care for their hands. Oh, the world. I might fall into a pit and never come back. Then I saw it, a woman lying head down in the heap of leaves. Her head has some crimson color liquid on it. My eyes were fixed on the hand.

They were a beautiful pair I saw in a long time. I was bought back to reality when my aunt and her daughter screamed and ran away. I managed to stay behind. I kept looking at her hands. I found a blunt piece of iron and wanted to hide that hand from those gore who don’t care for the obvious beauty of hands. I started, just below the elbow. Deep and deep went my iron piece. My hands were little but my speed was unmatched. I was elevated to see such beautiful hands after a long time. My iron piece got stuck in the bones. I could not go past it. I tried my best. I was perspiring. I wipe my head with the back of my hand. And started jumping on the iron, stuck in the bones to go through it.

Oh! The hands were getting dirty. Those perfectly shaped hands were getting very dirty. Oh no.

And then came the all the stupid villagers, staring at me like I am some sort of a lunatic. They pushed me away. My father slapped me took me home. I don’t know why they were so upset, I was just saving those beautiful hands.

I was so tired, I looked myself in the water before papa threw me into the pond and scrubbed me all over. That crimson liquid was on me. Maybe he didn’t like that.

I have a simple life, rules that I live by. Society doesn’t like my passion for hands and the way I acquire them. I don’t need the validation of those lunatics, those hypocrites. Have I ever raised a finger at the butterfly collectors, clipping wings on the board? Such beautiful creatures. They should be stored in jars, their color maintained. Proper environment to flourish them.

I am a scientist. I am studying on how to keep the pulse of my collection alive. It has been 20 years since that incident. I have collected 15 hands for each year. It takes a lot you know. Finding that perfect hand. Follow the hand everywhere 24/7. Every beat of hand had to be recorded, only then can I gauge a perfect time and situation to include it in my collection. I have my precious tools. I have evolved, you see from that village incident. I have sophisticated hardware. I build them myself.

I make a woman, owner of the said hand, fall for my obvious charm, they are all the same. I take them to dinners. I take them to places and talk all shit about romance. They are all over me.

Now to my favorite part. I drug the owner of the hand and remove their hand. I place it in my precious containment box that will maintain its freshness. I discard the owner. I don’t particularly care. Some I burned, some I buried. Police had found them sometimes. These incompetent lads can never touch me.

I haven’t found a perfect collectible yet. I am still searching for it. 

Oh, Mother! where is it?