These Hands. Page Three

He turns on a light, he smells them. He licks them. His ache for knowledge about himself has disregarded his taste buds.
He stands and rips down his pants turning around like a dog chasing his tail, not sure where to begin. Bald knee, chicken flesh legs, wrinkled penis, thick injured ankles. He sits down to examine his feet again. He forgot to check the bottom. Soft, not Neanderthalic, pink.
A moment passes and hair falls into his eyes. He grabs it, logic is not with him. He pulls trying to stretch it into his view. He doesn’t feel the pain. His tongue doesn’t reach it. Then he spots the scissors. He leaps, grabs the scissors used for cutting hair and cuts it from the roots. He holds it up like a scalp. He tries to scream but gets lost in the texture. Greasy, light, not as dark as I thought. He smells it; it’s a foreign smell. It smells good. He rubs it against his face. He puts it in his mouth.
He can no longer see the hair above his eyes. Treason. The hair that made up a small part of him is gone. The hair is not his and it is a waste to examine it. He throws it on the ash and dust gathered on his floor. He closes his eyes and sighs. At that moment he had never felt more lost.
He fell back on his bed and saw the cracks in his ceiling. He wished for it to crash down on him. He prayed for a tornado. He actually put his fists together. The tornado never came and he found himself suddenly awake. Hours had passed and the thumping in his head was more apparent. Where am I?
He saw the sunlight, it betrayed his mood. He had pulled his pants up and felt them hot, full of razors. He shed them with disregard to all pants. He stood and saw the window was open. He wanted to see outside. He was going to try a new approach. Maybe someone out there could tell him who he was. He took off his shirt and stretched out his arms.
With his head back and eyes closed he let the world examine him. He let the wind try to get at him. He let everyone in, but tried to keep himself out. He waited for days, for months, years. He held his breathe. He tried to cry. He ended up laughing.
What he wanted to see most were his eyes. People have commented on them. After his experiment with his hair, he knew that once detached, once removed, they were no longer a part of him. He opened his eyes and tried to feel them. He moved them back and forth, up and down. He made his zombie eyes. Laughter came.
That’s what he was. He knew it all along. This shell he was carrying wasn’t him. This was just a vessel. His legs, his hair his eyes, they weren’t him. He wouldn’t have to see his organs. This thought, this unexplored and relevant idea should have made him feel better.
Still he wasn’t ashamed. He still stood naked in front of the window and got a brief glimpse of enjoyment at the absurdity of what he was doing. He rubbed his head. A smile. His laughter didn’t turn to joy. Play the clown and laugh.
If it isn’t my body that makes me, what does? The idea lingered as he stepped to his desk. He saw what lay before him. Dirty dishes, things that fill his pockets, random notes about movies he wants to see. Pens, calendars, empty water bottles. Stuff and things. He smelled his watch before his attention was taken away. The bag by the door called to him.