The old man, my father, he sat in his workshop. His heavy wooden workbench lit by a dim flickering oil lamp. The old hag, my mother, sat beside him on her ancient chair, wrinkles on her face matching the splintered texture of the wood. She stared blankly down at the dusty tatched quilt thrown across her lap. The quilt was dirty and mostly devoid of wool stuffing which always made me wonder if it kept her warm at all.
My father was tinkering and determinedly screwing something in place. His workshop was his cave, it was a dangerous and scary place. He sat on the crooked stool working at his contraptions. Whenever I mustered the courage to peep into the room, I rarely saw him move or potter about as one would expect for one within a tinkerer's workshop. I much fear that he sensed me and his stillness had many a time caused me great discomfort which forced me to leave the place as quickly and as quietly as I had arrived.
His hands hovered over his workbench littered with all manner of screwdrivers, ratchets, cranks, saws which were meant to hack or jig through wood, metal and stone like a knife through warm butter. On the walls hung multiple viciously-toothed hand saws, named after equally savage fish; Barracuda, Moray, Hammerhead. The hag sat in her same chair in her same pose everytime I managed to peek inside. Was she even my mother, was she alive?
The old man's workshop was the scariest thing I had ever seen.
Until today.
It was past midnight, and as usual I had dreams plaguing my mind with horrors that kept me tossing in my bed. This night I woke in fright with a numbing pain inside me. Excruciating fire racked my bones as I sat up in my bed, waiting, hoping for the torment to be just a continuation of my nightmare.
It was not. I looked at the black devil cat coiled at the foot of my bed, undisturbed by my somnumbulistic thrashings. It slowly opened one eye to look at the rictus etched on my face, and a damning blink later it returned to its sleep. I winced and looked at the palm of my right hand and on it, on the fleshy part between the index finger and my thumb, I saw I had developed a sore. A small pustule, not larger than a kernel of corn. It was dry and old, wart-like.
I was furious. Without a second of consideration, I fled down the stairs and straight into my father's workshop. Threw my left hand blindly over the tools, grabbing at anything and everything, wishing one of the shapes will feel useful. I ignored the scratches and jabs, the cuts and grazes left on my hand.
Finally, I found what I was not looking for. A small round-bladed scalpel, the surgical kind. The edge of the blade looked blunt and had a thin veil of rust around the edge. I quickly made a small clearing on the workbench, enough to fit my splayed right hand. And with my palm facing me, I started to dig and cut at the pustule until there was no more of this foreign flesh left.
As the old, wart-skin fell and I wiped off the blood in an oil rag, I sat on the hag's chair heavily. My offended hand throbbed with pain but I felt victorious over this nightmare pox. I raised my hand to my eyes and prepared myself to measure the damage and conjure up any excuses for such a strange wound.
What I saw petrified every muscle in my body. In disbelief I convinced myself to touch my wound, feel what was inside it.
My stomach heaved and the room started to spin.
In the cavity produced from my slashing, where the wart was, embedded in my dermis, there were two pairs of feline incisors.
I retched the evening's thick tuber soup onto the cold stone floor.
In half a second of recovery and lucidity, I dared a second glance. The teeth were still there, gnawing at my own skin. The gums they were set in glistened a visceral pink. The nerves in my hand fired in rapid succession overwhelming my brain's ability to register pain.
The dim oil lamp went dimmer, then out and the room turned black.
I opened my eyes. I was lying on the floor, surrounded by several of my father's tools which I must have dropped as I fell.
And the scalpel. I grabbed it and without a flicker hesitation I stabbed my right hand.
I cut my skin.
I slashed at the muscle underneath.
I twisted the blade and the bones cracked.
The following morning, the nurse had to adjust the strap to hold my stump against the gurney, before giving me a dose of potassium bromide.
