The Arm and Flanagan

by David Dvorkin

Jimmy went to bed early and lay on his back for what seemed like hours staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide open, fully awake, his mind racing.

  Despite the watch, the visit from his uncle told him that his parents wanted him out. He wanted out. He didn’t see how he could get a job. Without a job, how was he going to get out? What the hell was he going to do? Kill himself? He had always felt contempt for people who committed suicide, but he was beginning to understand how someone could do it.

  As for the telephone call his mother had told him about, what could he tell people who had lost limbs? “Guys, I’m going crazy, and I’m your model.” That wouldn’t do. How about, “Your life’s gone to hell, but if you’re lucky, some day you’ll get one of the military’s fancy new prosthetics, like mine, and then your life will really go to hell.” Even worse.

  And Terrie. What about Terrie? Every time he checked his phone, there were new voicemails from her. He had to see her eventually. She wanted to dump him because he’d lost his arm. That was the reality, and he had to face it. Putting it off wouldn’t change anything.

  Tomorrow, he told himself. I’ll face reality tomorrow.

  His breathing slowed, and he drifted into sleep.

  An hour later, he woke up gasping from a dream in which he was being suffocated. The arm was lying over his face, covering his nose and mouth.

  He tried to move it back to his side, but it wouldn’t respond. He grabbed it with his right hand and threw it to his left. It flopped limply to the mattress. He could scarcely feel it. It had again become an inert, useless machine.

  He lay still for a long time as his racing heart returned slowly to normal.

  Yeah, he thought, I’ll go talk to those people. I’ll tell them to be happy with the hooks they’ve got for hands. Stay away from whatever the Defense Department’s peddling.

  In fact, he decided, that was good advice in general.

  Smiling at the thought, he relaxed and fell asleep again.

  He dreamed that he was with Terrie and she had put her hand gently, lovingly against his cheek as she always did. In his dream, she still loved and wanted him.

  He woke slowly and realized that the palm of the artificial hand was resting softly against his cheek. It felt warm.

  He flinched away from it in disgust and again used his right hand to throw it aside.

  He stirred restlessly for a long time before drifting into sleep again.

  Toward morning, he dreamed that he was lying in his bed, sleeping. He dreamed that jolts of electricity, flashing visibly like lightning, were shooting from the artificial arm into the stump it was attached to. In his dream, the prongs he remembered so well reappeared. They pulled themselves out of the skin of his stump, leaving bleeding gashes.

  The arm began to twist itself back and forth in half circles and to thrash violently, trying to detach itself from Jimmy’s stump. It was agonizing and horrifying, but he lay on his back, paralyzed, unable to stop the arm.

  His flesh parted. He was staring up at the ceiling and couldn’t turn his head to look, and yet he knew exactly what was happening. The arm tore itself away from him, bit by bit. Ligaments and blood vessels tore. Blood gushed onto the bed. The arm twisted and thrashed even more violently, trying to break its connection to the bone of his upper arm.

  At last he heard and felt the bone snap and the arm pull itself away from him. He could feel his blood and his life pouring out of the gaping wound. He wanted to scream but couldn’t.

  His eyes opened slowly. He became aware of the dim light of from the window and knew he had been dreaming.

  Fearfully, he slid his right arm across his body, under the covers, and felt for the artificial arm. It was still there, still attached, still lying limply by his side.

  The arm bent at the elbow and slid it itself out from under the covers. It raised itself in the air and straightened.

  In silhouette, Jimmy saw the hand perform the self–testing procedure. When it finished, the arm brought its hand close to Jimmy’s face as if it were presenting itself for his inspection, or as if it were inspecting him.

  After a moment, it lay down again, resting upon the covers. Jimmy could feel that he was in full control of it once more.

  “You’re still a worthless pile of shit,” Jimmy muttered.

  * * * * *