impressions on his memory. Though he was awake, his mind was passive, his attention so meager and dispersed that he might as well have been asleep.
He was so close to a sleeping state, in fact, that he actually began to feel drowsy after a while. At a quarter past eleven, in the middle of his third film of the night, he finally nodded off. Thoughtless, childlike, liquefied, he settled peacefully down toward the misty levels of dreamland; the chatter and music of the movie served as a sedative, a gentle soporific like a bedtime story read softly by a mother.
Deeper and deeper he sank, floating and bobbing as if riding a parachute, his mind dropping slowly and spreading thin on easy breezes. Eventually, Steve sifted into the deepest levels of sleep, the true darkness, the void at the bottom of every sleeper ' s fall.
After a timeless span, he rose upward again, spiraled lazily from the lower reaches like a child ' s lost balloon. Slowly, inexorably, he climbed toward consciousness again, toward reality.
Finally, his eyes flickered open. For an instant, everything was blurry, a formless haze of light and color. He blinked a few times, and the room cleared, then clouded again, returning to moist incoherence. Yawning, Steve reached up to rub his eyes, work away the film that had gathered during his nap.
That was when he discovered that he didn ' t have any hands.
He tried to move his fingers, but there were no fingers to move.
Instantly, he shot to full awareness, whipping away his drowsiness like a shower curtain. His vision suddenly cleared, and he could see everything in sharp, stark detail.
He could see where his hands had been. He could see the ends of his arms, now wrapped in blood - soaked gauze.
He could see that something terrible had happened while he'd been asleep.
Screaming senselessly, gaping at the useless stumps, Steve tried to leap from his seat...but something stopped him, held him firmly at the waist. Flinging himself back, tossing his head crazily from side to side, he suddenly noticed that he wasn ' t on the sofa anymore. Not only that, but he wasn ' t even in the same room in which he'd fallen asleep.
He wasn ' t in the TV room. Instead, he was upstairs, in the spacious living room. He was seated on his father ' s antique chair, the big oak chair which had come from France.
In a panic, he looked down to see what was holding him in the chair. He saw a wide leather strap cinched around his waist, wrapped tightly under the armrests and around the back of the chair.
A bolt of pain struck him, blazing up from his left arm, and Steve screamed. Pitching his skull back against the hard wood of the chair, jamming his eyes shut, he shrieked like a police siren, shrilly and constantly.
Flapping his handless stumps in the air, Steve Kimmel screamed and screamed. Hysterically, he thrust and jolted against the restraining strap. He tried to kick, but his legs were held fast, also strapped to the chair. Lurching, bolting, shrieking, he spasmed like a madman, fighting to break free.
Steve didn ' t stop screaming until something bashed against his skull, struck him with such force that it left him silent and reeling. A flash of blackness came over him and he felt a fresh blossom of pain burst above his ear.
Fighting the pain and darkness, he shook his head furiously and screamed again. At that point, a pair of hands shot out from behind him and encircled his throat, choking off the cries.
He struggled, but the hands clenched tighter about his neck, digging into his windpipe. Instinctively, he swung his arms up to try to wrench away the strangling grip...only to be reminded that he had no hands with which to wrench.
Writhing and gagging, Steve battled for breath, but the fingers at his throat were drawn too tightly to admit any air. The hands continued to constrict, crushing Steve ' s windpipe like a garden hose; though he squirmed and thrashed his head, the viselike pressure wouldn ' t lessen a bit.
Before
He was so close to a sleeping state, in fact, that he actually began to feel drowsy after a while. At a quarter past eleven, in the middle of his third film of the night, he finally nodded off. Thoughtless, childlike, liquefied, he settled peacefully down toward the misty levels of dreamland; the chatter and music of the movie served as a sedative, a gentle soporific like a bedtime story read softly by a mother.
Deeper and deeper he sank, floating and bobbing as if riding a parachute, his mind dropping slowly and spreading thin on easy breezes. Eventually, Steve sifted into the deepest levels of sleep, the true darkness, the void at the bottom of every sleeper ' s fall.
After a timeless span, he rose upward again, spiraled lazily from the lower reaches like a child ' s lost balloon. Slowly, inexorably, he climbed toward consciousness again, toward reality.
Finally, his eyes flickered open. For an instant, everything was blurry, a formless haze of light and color. He blinked a few times, and the room cleared, then clouded again, returning to moist incoherence. Yawning, Steve reached up to rub his eyes, work away the film that had gathered during his nap.
That was when he discovered that he didn ' t have any hands.
He tried to move his fingers, but there were no fingers to move.
Instantly, he shot to full awareness, whipping away his drowsiness like a shower curtain. His vision suddenly cleared, and he could see everything in sharp, stark detail.
He could see where his hands had been. He could see the ends of his arms, now wrapped in blood - soaked gauze.
He could see that something terrible had happened while he'd been asleep.
Screaming senselessly, gaping at the useless stumps, Steve tried to leap from his seat...but something stopped him, held him firmly at the waist. Flinging himself back, tossing his head crazily from side to side, he suddenly noticed that he wasn ' t on the sofa anymore. Not only that, but he wasn ' t even in the same room in which he'd fallen asleep.
He wasn ' t in the TV room. Instead, he was upstairs, in the spacious living room. He was seated on his father ' s antique chair, the big oak chair which had come from France.
In a panic, he looked down to see what was holding him in the chair. He saw a wide leather strap cinched around his waist, wrapped tightly under the armrests and around the back of the chair.
A bolt of pain struck him, blazing up from his left arm, and Steve screamed. Pitching his skull back against the hard wood of the chair, jamming his eyes shut, he shrieked like a police siren, shrilly and constantly.
Flapping his handless stumps in the air, Steve Kimmel screamed and screamed. Hysterically, he thrust and jolted against the restraining strap. He tried to kick, but his legs were held fast, also strapped to the chair. Lurching, bolting, shrieking, he spasmed like a madman, fighting to break free.
Steve didn ' t stop screaming until something bashed against his skull, struck him with such force that it left him silent and reeling. A flash of blackness came over him and he felt a fresh blossom of pain burst above his ear.
Fighting the pain and darkness, he shook his head furiously and screamed again. At that point, a pair of hands shot out from behind him and encircled his throat, choking off the cries.
He struggled, but the hands clenched tighter about his neck, digging into his windpipe. Instinctively, he swung his arms up to try to wrench away the strangling grip...only to be reminded that he had no hands with which to wrench.
Writhing and gagging, Steve battled for breath, but the fingers at his throat were drawn too tightly to admit any air. The hands continued to constrict, crushing Steve ' s windpipe like a garden hose; though he squirmed and thrashed his head, the viselike pressure wouldn ' t lessen a bit.
Before
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