The Man with Cold Hands (Part One)

travelin' home

The light was bright and my eyes were hazy.  I couldn’t remember how long I had been here.  In fact, I’m not even sure where I was.  The room was dimly lit, and I couldn’t really see how big it was, or even what else was in the room.  It seemed my eyes didn’t really work very well.

Every single day was the same routine.  A woman in white would come into the glass box in which I spent my time, and she would poke me with needles and pull at my skin and hair.  She always smiled at me, but her eyes were dark and cold. Her hair was a light blond, and in tight curls close to her head.  The color on her cheeks was artificial.  Even though I was scared of her, I couldn’t scream or yell out.  When she was done, she would stroke my arm…

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