Imagine by Charlotte Hollingsworth
Imagine waking up in a hospital bed, every limb bandaged, your head throbbing, eyes dry, mouth even drier. No recollection of what brought you here. A doctor stands over you but his words are jumbled as he gazes down on you, clipboard in hand. He gestures to your left-hand side but you don’t follow. You stare and you stare, trying to make sense of the words. Eventually the doctor leaves as a nurse takes his place, fussing over you – fluffing pillows, fixing bandages.
Imagine being wheeled through the hallways of the hospital. Nurses wave goodbye and smile at you, you’ve recovered greatly. But you don’t feel recovered. You feel empty. At the entrance an orderly helps you stand, pulling on your arm. You stand at the door, sun flooding your senses, a breeze dancing against your skin. Good luck, he tells you, and hands you your bag. You reach for it with an arm that no longer exists. The orderly’s pity cuts through you as you use your right arm to reach for the bag instead. You’ll get used to it, he says, uselessly, not knowing anything really. You nod, stepping outside, one less limb, no memory of it happening, just something you had to accept when you woke up.
Imagine living your whole life with two arms only to have one taken from you without your consent or knowledge. At least it was your left, your friends and family joke, thank God you’re right handed. You don’t laugh.
Imagine.
Mathew woke suddenly throwing off the covers and gasping for breath. He was drenched in sweat and a savage pain tore through his missing left arm. He grasped for it with his right before remembering. It didn’t exist anymore. But the pain was excruciating. He sat up, taking in gulps of air, trying to center himself. Phantom limb, the doctor called it. It’s common to feel twinges and phantom motions in your missing limb. It’s normal. But this didn’t feel normal. Mathew felt his heart start to slow down and found it easier to breathe. He reached for the glass of water beside his bed and the bottle of pain killers. He tossed two into his mouth and drained the glass. Laying back down his missing left limb no longer hurt, but it felt like pins and needles, as if he’d fallen asleep on top of it. Outside of his apartment in the hallway he heard thumping footsteps as someone ran by, followed by muffled shouts. But the painkillers kicked in and his eyes drifted close as he fell back into a deep sleep.
That morning Mathew drank a coffee staring blankly as the TV flashed images on the morning news. But quickly he focused, realizing his own building was on the screen.
“This morning at around 5am a young woman was found in an apartment block strangled to death in her own home. A neighbor called 911 after hearing sounds of struggling and objects being smashed. Police found the woman’s door unlocked and signs of an attack inside. At this time, they don’t have any suspects but we have learned the identity of the woman….”
Mathew saw one of his neighbor’s face smiling out of his TV, a young woman who lived on the floor below him. Her name was Nancy apparently, though he’d never introduced himself. Just seen her a few times in the stairwell or the lobby. Once he helped her carry a heavy package. Before the accident of course.
He felt groggy from the pain and the effects of the painkillers in the night so he turned the TV off, finishing his coffee and sitting down at his desk to work.
A few hours later he was questioned by the police. They knocked on his door and he invited them in. They explained they were looking for witnesses, did he hear anything? The younger cop kept staring at his missing arm. He told them he was taking pretty heavy painkillers and usually slept like the dead, he paused, no pun intended. The cops left a business card with him and thanked him for his time.
He left shortly after, walking to his doctor’s office a few blocks away. When he went out in public he fitted himself with a cheap proshetic under a hoodie. More so to stop the stares than for his own comfort. He never wore it in his own home and since he rarely went out anymore he didn’t feel the need to invest in one of those new proshetics that were life like. His family pressed him to do so, told him it would help him heal. But they didn’t know. Not really. How could they?
At the doctors he mentioned the pain but the doctor wasn’t much help. He said up to 80% of amputees felt pain in their phantom limbs, it was perfectly normal. Mathew tried to convey the level of pain but the doctor wasn’t really listening. He spoke about brain imaging, rewired inputs, neural pain pathways, junk signals. Mathew eventually tuned him out and let the doctor poke and prod his stump. Does this hurt? No. What about when I do this? No. Can you feel this? Yes.
As Mathew pulled on his sweater and plastic limb the doctor chuckled to himself as he opened the door for him. You know, there was a Naval commander back in the day who lost his right arm in battle. He claimed the phantom sensations were proof of the existence of a soul. Science has come a long way, don’t you think? Mathew didn’t respond but mulled that over as he walked home.
He had a few restful nights and productive work days. The weekend passed where he only left the house once to refill his painkiller prescription. The beauty of modern laziness was that he didn’t need to leave for much; groceries were delivered to him weekly, Postmates covered any last-minute cravings, UberEats helped him if he felt like fast food. He could even get his prescriptions delivered if he wanted, but decided that the short walk down the street once a month was fine.
But during the next week he woke in the middle of the night again. His phantom limb screamed in agony as he fumbled to turn on the light. He stared at his shoulder stump not understanding how something that didn’t exist could hurt so fucking bad. Doing his breathing exercises, he felt himself calm down. He reached for the painkillers and the glass of water and fell back into a needed sleep.
The next morning Mathew stood in the bathroom facing his only mirror in the home, he was attempting to shave. He had a video conference call and didn’t love the unibomber cosplay he was currently doing. As he gazed at his reflection he noticed scratch marks on his neck. They were quite deep – three long cuts down the right side. There was dried blood around them.
He lost track of time examining the scratches and found himself floundering to get organized for the conference call. Coffee would have to wait.
In the afternoon he heard a knock on his door. The cops were outside again. He let them in and offered them a drink. They both declined and the younger cop continued to stare at his missing arm. There’d been another murder in the building, had he heard? Mathew was genuinely shocked and found himself falling heavily onto the couch. Another? Yes, another, this time an old man on the floor above him. Had he heard anything? God, no, Mathew said, am I in any danger here? The cops shook their heads and said there was no current reason to panic, everything was under control. They stood up to leave and Mathew followed them to the door. The younger cop stopped and stared, this time at his neck. What happened there? He pointed. I have no idea, Mathew responded, I woke up this morning and noticed them. I have nightmares sometimes, phantom limb pain, have you heard of that? The older cop nodded. I must have struggled and scratched myself. The cops left.
Mathew walked to his window which opened onto the fire escape. He gazed down at the street below, rubbing his neck.
Two weeks later Mathew received an email from his sister. She was the one he spoke to the most. She’d lost her husband a few years back to a heart attack and knew the story of grief. Knew the story of a missing limb – the limb being the love of her life, her backbone, the man who kept her going.
“Hope you’re sleeping okay little bro, I read an interesting article this morning about mirror therapy. Supposedly it’s a life changer for amputees.” The link was included and Mathew read it through.
The concept was relatively simple – a mirror box placed against the missing limb would reflect the opposite limb making it appear as if both limbs were present, and hiding the stump. If the present limb moved, the reflection would show the missing limb moving as well. The brain “saw” the limb moving and it relieved the phantom pain. Amputees reported that it helped with immediate relief and used the contraption frequently.
It was worth a shot.
A few days later Mathew had built a mirror box of his own and as he sat on his bed he moved his right arm, gazing at the mirror, he saw his left arm “move”. A weight was immediately lifted from him and he laughed aloud at the relief. That night he called his sister and told her of the success, he teared up as he tried to explain how it felt, his voice cracking with emotion. She cried with him.
That night Mathew awoke in the middle of the night, a scream stuck in his throat. The phantom limb burned as if every muscle in it had been strained. He felt a cold wind whip through the bedroom and shivered. Had he left a window open? But his thoughts couldn’t settle so he switched on the lamp and took the mirror box, placing it against his side. He watched as his phantom limb appeared in the mirror and moved. Instant relief. But wait. He stared harder and realized his phantom limb was covered in blood. There were deep scratches on the skin and blood splatter all the way up to his shoulder. In a full-blown panic, he looked at his right arm but saw nothing, clean skin. He looked back at the mirror and saw blood. He pushed the mirror off him and stood abruptly, breaths coming fast and short. He stumbled into the living room, barely noticing the fire escape window wide open, curtains whipping about from the wind storm outside. He leaned over the sink drinking deeply from the tap and then slid to the floor, feeling the cool tile against his right palm. He refused to look at his left-hand side, even though he knew he would see nothing.
After awhile he felt himself nodding off, his back against the kitchen cupboard. He pushed himself up with his legs and right arm heading to bed. In the hallway he heard yells and the slamming of doors. One problem at a time, he thought. He got into bed, took his painkillers and immediately fell asleep.
The next morning, he turned on the news almost knowing what he would find. A banner cut across the bottom of the screen; BREAKING NEWS – THIRD DEAD IN APARTMENT MURDERS – POSSIBLE SERIAL KILLER. Mathew left his apartment and found the lobby filled with his neighbors buzzing from the news. He gathered quickly what had happened. Another woman had been strangled to death. This time a middle-aged woman on the 5th floor, two above him. The door was locked and there was no sign of a break in. Neighbors speculated wildly – the building would be shutdown, the killer had left a threatening note, a woman had seen a black man running through the halls, the landlord was an ex criminal. Mathew ignored it all and went back up to his apartment.
That night a mini town hall was called in the building, everyone met in the courtyard. Police shared that there would be a police officer in the building 24/7 patrolling the floors. They shared that they believe this was done by one person and was using the fire escape to enter the apartments. They recommended people leaving if they had the ability to, if not, they strongly encouraged people to lock their windows and doors. They had leads they promised, though they wouldn’t expand on that. They encouraged people to come forward with any tips they had, they told them that every little bit helps. As the tenants crowded around the police trying to get their facetime in, Mathew left. The younger cop who had visited him previously watched him go.
That night he was distracted. He couldn’t focus on anything. Channel skipping, picking up a book only to put it down again a few minutes later. He ignored calls from his family and texted the group chat to let them know that yes, it was his building, and no, he wasn’t leaving, and he was perfectly safe please stop asking.
He put himself to bed early and nodded off. His painkillers sat on his bedside table untaken. His routine had been thrown off and he’d completely bypassed the pills accidentally.
Mathew woke up to screaming.
His phantom limb felt strange.
He could feel his fingers wrapped around flesh. His arm muscles strained and burned.
In front of him was a young man crying and gasping.
He felt his phantom hand clutch tighter, cutting off the sounds the man was making.
The man’s hands scratched uselessly at his left arm, his legs kicking the wall he was raised up against.
Mathew watched the life leave this man’s eyes and then stepped back. The body slumped and fell against the wall. He looked down at his left arm, flexing his fingers that were throbbing with pain, blood dripping down his arm from defensive scratches. He watched as something grey and viscous poured out of the dead man’s mouth. It floated in the air in front of him for a second before wrapping itself around Mathew’s missing fingers. The arm seemed to flex greedily as it absorbed the grey material. When it had disappeared completely, so had Mathew’s left arm.
All of a sudden, he only had one arm again but a pain ripped through his left side. Mathew walked slowly to the open window, stepping out onto the fire escape. He heard someone pounding on the apartment door, someone yelling, a police siren flashed below. He climbed the fire escape slowly, right hand gripping the metal banister, pulling himself up. He reached his apartment window and calmly stepped inside, closing the window behind him. He walked into the bedroom and set up his mirror box gazing at his phantom limb. It pulsed, a grey light surrounding it.
His doctor’s voice cut through his thoughts; You know, there was a Naval commander back in the day who lost his right arm in battle. He claimed the phantom sensations were proof of the existence of a soul.
Imagine waking up in a prison cell. No memory of why you were there. Your inmate watches you cautiously as you wake, then stares blatantly at your missing arm.
Imagine wandering through the yard, tall and menacing fences surround you. At the picnic tables sits a group of men, your roommate among them. He points at you and the group turns to watch as you walk laps around the grass. Your roommate shoves his arm inside his sleeve so it disappears, gesturing wildly, the group laughs.
Imagine waking up in the middle of the night, pain screaming through your phantom limb. Your cellmate lies dead on the floor below your bunk. You don’t have painkillers in here so you lie awake working through the pain, you feel the missing arm throb and you eventually fall asleep, a soft smile on your face.
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