Hands of Smoke

Al Vital

Chandler didn’t like looking in the mirror.

He couldn’t remember a time when he did like looking in the mirror. A time when it wasn’t covered with an old shirt.

He knew he had seen himself. At one point he could look at himself and his throat wouldn’t close, and his mouth wouldn’t go dry. 

When he saw himself in the mirror, he used to see a version of himself that maybe wasn’t quite him, but still recognizable as Chandler Dunning.

When he looked in the mirror now, he saw fire.

He saw flames scolding across his chest, down in and around his legs, his wrists, and his back. He saw it strangle him as the singeing moved to wrap around his throat. It pressed down hard on his airways, depriving him of oxygen.

His palms felt scraped raw, like he had tripped and fallen, then used his hands to catch himself against the concrete. 

He pressed them to the bathroom counter, the cold marble sunk into his skin and he breathed through his nose.

He felt calm for a moment, but the burning returned when he tried to swallow and it felt as though his throat had turned to ash.

Chandler preferred the fire to the fingers.

Simple fabricated grazes over his skin that weren’t there, but felt like they were. That made him feel crazy because nothing was there, but he knew there was. That the hands he felt pressed into his hips and his jaw, then crushed his nose, ripped out his teeth, and smashed his wrists were real. They had to be. Unless he was crazy.

They grappled at him, reaching down into his throat, pulling out his vocal cords so he couldn’t scream.

Then the hands ripped his clothes from his body, they forged with him and got into his skin, making him feel as though the fire that before just singed him from outside burned him internally as well, so he could not escape it no matter how hard he tried to.

He smelt the smoldered flesh while the hands of smoke burned him from the inside out. He couldn’t scream, but he felt like he was. At least he was trying to. Because he wasn’t crazy, so they had to be there, but only he could see them and feel them.

Chandler inhaled. He stared at the mirror. At himself. The old shirt that had covered it moments prior crumbled behind the faucet.

He reached forward and turned the handle on the sink. Cool water began to flow from the spout and he placed his hands under it.

They no longer felt scraped raw, and his throat began to loosen. 

He took his hands from under the water and placed his palms against either side of his face. His cheeks tingle at the sensation and he could feel the hands of smoke let go of his lungs. All the weight hovering left.

Nothing could ever fully remove the hands from his body, but possibly he could put up with it.

He could put up with the cool water as it dripped from his fingers and down his wrist.

–

Al Vitale is from a small town in Maine. He spends most of his time reading, writing, and rewatching shows he’s already seen numerous times.