After a long day of sleeping, I discovered that my hand had grown jeans.
“What’s this?” I wondered.
My dominant right hand split open in half, just like the blades of a pair of shears, without bleeding. My right hand was, moreover, weirdly blue.
I sat up and looked at both hands. My left hand remained normal. No sooner had I realized that something terrible happened than I hid both hands under the duvet, though nobody was in my room.
I tried to calm myself down. I took my right hand slowly out of the duvet and stared at it again. Still it was a pair of jeans, definitely. My hand was covered in raised bumps like denim-covered pimples. There was a dividing line between the blue fabric and the flesh on my wrist.
I thought, “I should have plastic surgery done on my right hand in order to divide these disgusting two fingers into five fingers. What would it cost? Would it be covered by health insurance? Could it turn flesh color? What rehabilitation would I undergo?”
I got into the duvet again. I decided not to go to the office, thinking that I would never be able to work, and closed my eyes.
Yet I didn’t sleep. I was going to lie on my right side, according to my habit of lying on my right side, but I was continuously conscious of my hand. Even if I rested on my back or on my stomach, something was weighing on me. I felt my right hand incongruous. I felt myself incongruous.
Even while I had my eyes closed, I could not help feeling that my right hand was a little bit heavier, harder and more uncomfortable than before. I was struck by the incongruity and by my fate that I would have to tolerate the incongruity as long as I lived. My right hand was an unwanted distraction.
I opened my eyes. Even under the duvet, the weird right hand was there, being dark blue.