The Man with Cold Hands (Part One)

The light was bright and my eyes were hazy.  I couldn’t remember how long I had been here.  In fact, I’m not even sure where I was.  The room was dimly lit, and I couldn’t really see how big it was, or even what else was in the room.  It seemed my eyes didn’t really work very well.

Every single day was the same routine.  A woman in white would come into the glass box in which I spent my time, and she would poke me with needles and pull at my skin and hair.  She always smiled at me, but her eyes were dark and cold. Her hair was a light blond, and in tight curls close to her head.  The color on her cheeks was artificial.  Even though I was scared of her, I couldn’t scream or yell out.  When she was done, she would stroke my arm and say, “All done.”

I lived in a glass box.  There really wasn’t much more to it.  There were no doors.  Part of the box would disappear so the woman could enter every day, but when I touched it, it was solid glass.  I had a small bed.  Most of my time I spent pacing around, looking through the glass, and staring at The Man who was asleep on the table in front of the glass box.  He never woke up, so I would watch his chest rise and fall with his deep breaths.  He had no clothes, only a sheet that covered him and his arms and legs were bound to the table.  His skin was almost a glowing white, but his hair was dark.  He looked unreal, like a wax figure, because he had hardly any color.

Today, I knelt down on the floor.  My legs were in pain and my toes were numb.  But I wanted to look at The Man.  I fogged up the glass with my breath and traced his figure with my thumb.  Leaning my forehead on the glass, I lightly tapped with my finger, so as to not make too much noise.

The Man opened his eyes.

I quickly shot back to the other end of my box, breathing heavily.  I slowly crawled back over.  His eyes were looking directly at me.  One was pale blue and the other dark green.  I tapped the glass again.

The Man blinked.

I was afraid, but I smiled at him.  His face was stern, but curious.  Then I heard a voice boom gently in my mind:

“Where am I?”


Part Two

Copyright 2014 Meg Swensen

3 thoughts on “The Man with Cold Hands (Part One)

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