La Mano - The Hand

The gush of blood surprised him. It came as quickly and unexpectedly as had the rage. Eight seconds after the last blow, hand sent message to head that it was in pain. Nothing too bad - he had felt it a dozen times before. Deliberately, he released the tension in his right hand, regarding the white knuckles. His fist must have been tightly clenched because its color was just now returning. He considered the speed of his reflexes and began to feel grateful. His mind thought something and without having to be asked twice, his hand reacted. No explanation necessary.


At 16 years old he was sick of explanations. Mom. Counselors. Judge. Girlfriend. They always wanted answers, justifications, tell me one good reason why I should. When nothing else went his way at least he knew he could count on his dependable hands. His mom used to tell him and his brothers that if they refused to go to school they’d be forced to work with their hands for the rest of their lives. Not a horrible alternative so neither of them bothered with school. His father had refused to work with his hands or anything else and four children were not enough to convince him otherwise. Good. He didn’t need him anyway. If he saw his father on the street he probably wouldn’t recognize him, and if he did, he’d give him a right jab to the nose.


He stared at both palms, his thick fingers spread apart, and made a promise to his future. He will never leave his family. He will work hard for his wife and kids. He will depend on his hands because he can count on them – they listen – they’re reliable. His right hand had come to his aid a whole bunch of times and the mess it left behind was usually satisfying, if not downright rewarding to see. Now, he felt his stomach rise.


Over on his beat up mattress, she stirred. He would have rushed to her, held her, told her what a shit he was, but the blood stopped him. The flood of crimson, like cheap wine he often stole from the liquor store, didn’t look right against her delicate features and white teeth that were now clenched in agony. Her nose was an uprooted bridge that haphazardly stood between the forehead and two streams that bled into one. He would have loved to have looked into her gray eyes and prove his sincerity when he begged forgiveness but he couldn’t. One gray eye was buried deep inside a swollen blue-black lump.


What did she do? What set him off? He couldn’t even remember, but he knew instantly he had been betrayed. He brought his hand away from his mouth, where it was stifling an eager-to-escape cry, and glared at it, realizing he could never trust it again.