Phantom Limb

George sat down. The chair creaked noisily as he reached for his art supplies, carefully placing his brushes and paints by the edge of the tall easel. He took a deep, shaky breath. He hadn't tried painting anything since before the accident.

He took the thick brush in his left hand. It felt awkward - he had been right-handed, but his condition was forcing him to adapt. He sat for a few seconds and sighed heavily at the blank canvas, like a white door to nothingness.

Glancing down, he lifted his right arm silently. The forearm ended in a short stump, capped with a plastic and metal construct, covered with silicone to appear more 'life-like'. It looked like the arm of a doll, or puppet. He placed this hand back down on his lap with a soft thunk and closed his eyes.

A crash of metal, a loud bang, the stench of gasoline. His helmet lying by the side of the road, the bike crushed by the other vehicle. The driver of the van running out and screaming. The taste of blood in his mouth. The missing feeling as he tried to push himself up, then the fall and the shock of realization like a lightning bolt.

George opened his eyes slowly, and raised his head to the canvas again. If he was going to get through this, he needed to push his limits. He wouldn't let his disability hinder what he loved doing. Raising his left hand, he tried again.

Dipping the brush into the red paint, he awkwardly swashed it across the canvas, then stopped. The acrid smell of the red stain crossing the page burned his nose harshly, and he felt his frustration rise. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. Another red mark joined the first one, making a small, uneven cross on the fabric.

A trembled breath escaped his lips. He tossed the brush down to the bottom of the easel, and sat there shaking like a leaf caught in the cold wind. With his good hand he tore away the canvas, revealing a new sheet, then crumpled the offending piece and tossed it away. The sharp smell of the paint surrounded him like a dark cloud as he sat, breathing hard.

A thought came unbidden to him at that moment, and he hesitated nervously. Picking up the brush with his left hand, he placed it in the groove of his artificial hand. It fit perfectly, and although the fingers of that hand couldn't grip, the brush tucked neatly into the palm as though it was made for it.

He dipped the brush again - just a touch, as if testing the water with a toe - and placed it against the canvas.

Excitement rushed through him as he felt the familiar thrill of painting fill his body. This was natural, easy, and even though his hand had lost dexterity, his arm remembered what it was like to paint, and followed the motions it had known so long ago. It was a little rusty, a little awkward, but familiar, and right.

As George continued, he realized that he hadn't decided to paint any particular thing. His arm still moved, picking up the pace, until it was swinging wildly with the brush, scoring the canvas like a fencer. And even odder, the prosthetic arm no longer felt like a false one. He could feel his hand again, crossing the page, moving of its own accord.

His hand wouldn't stop. Despite his efforts to step away, something kept him rooted in the chair - whether it was something magical, something mysterious, or his own subconcious mind. He stared intently with blue eyes, scratching out an unintelligble picture. His left hand sporadically brushed hair out of his eyes, or scratched at his leg, but the right arm was in constant motion, almost wild.

And finally, the motion slowed down. His arm stopped, the brush hanging on the last thread of the painting. The feeling left his hand, and it no longer felt real - it was just a piece of metal and plastic now, locked to his arm. It dropped, the brush clattering to the ground, and the hand landing by his side with a slow swing, like a pendulum in time with his heartbeat.

George realized his eyes were closed. He opened them and raised his head to see what he had painted.


*Author's note: I don't know what he painted either.