My right hand mutated for hours. As I showed a friend my palm, from which a stand of pustules pushed out an oily substance on their own, two red strings appeared around the wrist, just underneath the skin, with one end of each string protruding from a hole at the base of the palm. I pulled at the strings, expecting a metallic scraping sound, but the only sounds were the exclamations from me and my friend. Neither was there pain, another surprise, and I grew bolder with pulling the strings out of my wrist.
The strings were red.
They were thick threads, round, a glossy plastic.
They had no end to themselves.
