stitched together just beneath the surface of his skin. He ran his good hand over the back of his ruined hand, fingering the disarrangement and discord of fleshy mounds and bumps and scars. It did nothing for him to feel the skin; he did not necessarily care what it looked or felt like. But making a fist forced him to care, as it took all his effort to bring those twisted and gnarled fingers around and to press them in and together and against the ruined flesh of his palm. Similarly, it was with much difficulty that he was able to bring his thumb around and to close it over his fingers. A fist: something that should have been so goddamn simple…and here he was, learning how to do it all over again. He felt helpless and like a child. And the painting—or, more specifically, the difficulty of painting—was only one aspect. There were many others, each a silent but stealthy reminder, a blow to his character and his pride. Specifically, he could not lift what he was once able to lift; he could not open what he was once able to open; he could not hit as he had once been able to hit. He could not make love to his wife the way he used to, either, and he recalled one time in particular, hovering above her, sliding his ruined hand beneath her and pressing his deformed fingers against the small of her back, attempting to raise her up off the bed but finding it impossible, and how she relaxed and eased herself down on his hand and his arm, and the white-hot agony that had exploded and raced, inferno-like, all through him, causing him to cry out once, sharply, painfully, before he even knew he was doing so, like a goddamn child. He had never been more aware of the injury, and had never been more aware of the pieces of metal and the half dozen twists of steel screws that were in his arm and in his hand keeping it all together. Most of all, he had never been more aware of his vulnerability.
But he did not want to think about that now. He did not want to think about Emma, and being with Emma in that way. Not right now…
Steam filled the bathroom, clouding over the reflection of his body in the mirror and creating fresh blossoms of condensed fog on the glass. He felt the water and made it cooler before stepping beneath the stream and forcing himself to forget everything around him for the time being.
Later, back in the room, wet and toweling off, Nick peeled back the shade over the windows and glanced out into the night. Suddenly, and for whatever reason, he felt trapped, unable to free himself and leave the room, leave the hotel, leave the island. It was an island, after all; perhaps to leave would be impossible. And it would not just be leaving—it would be escaping . Could he escape? Perhaps to get away from the hotel and the island and everything he now—and so recently—associated with the hotel and the island would be tantamount to an innocent’s escape from a nightmare and nearly as futile and useless as a pillager’s salting of the Sahara.
He dressed with little enthusiasm. Looking around, he noticed that the keys to the Impala were not on the nightstand where he usually left them. There was nothing there except the Bible, a folded leaflet, and a rectangular handbill, glossy and colorful. With graffito treble staffs and the bellbottom S of a hand-drawn saxophone, the handbill advertised an establishment called the Club Potemkin, which professed itself to be the island’s premiere venue for live blues and jazz. And tonight’s feature musician, he saw, was none other than Goat-Man Claxton and His Aged Trio. Nick let the handbill flutter to the floor. He reached out and picked up the leaflet. Unfolding it, Nick saw that it was on hotel stationary. It read in large, damning black letters:
LIMBO!
How low can you go?
Contest tonight in the Riviera Room!
He looked away and found himself helpless, unfortunate, staring at the empty bed jarringly empty, which had been recently attended to by housekeeping. He looked at the
But he did not want to think about that now. He did not want to think about Emma, and being with Emma in that way. Not right now…
Steam filled the bathroom, clouding over the reflection of his body in the mirror and creating fresh blossoms of condensed fog on the glass. He felt the water and made it cooler before stepping beneath the stream and forcing himself to forget everything around him for the time being.
Later, back in the room, wet and toweling off, Nick peeled back the shade over the windows and glanced out into the night. Suddenly, and for whatever reason, he felt trapped, unable to free himself and leave the room, leave the hotel, leave the island. It was an island, after all; perhaps to leave would be impossible. And it would not just be leaving—it would be escaping . Could he escape? Perhaps to get away from the hotel and the island and everything he now—and so recently—associated with the hotel and the island would be tantamount to an innocent’s escape from a nightmare and nearly as futile and useless as a pillager’s salting of the Sahara.
He dressed with little enthusiasm. Looking around, he noticed that the keys to the Impala were not on the nightstand where he usually left them. There was nothing there except the Bible, a folded leaflet, and a rectangular handbill, glossy and colorful. With graffito treble staffs and the bellbottom S of a hand-drawn saxophone, the handbill advertised an establishment called the Club Potemkin, which professed itself to be the island’s premiere venue for live blues and jazz. And tonight’s feature musician, he saw, was none other than Goat-Man Claxton and His Aged Trio. Nick let the handbill flutter to the floor. He reached out and picked up the leaflet. Unfolding it, Nick saw that it was on hotel stationary. It read in large, damning black letters:
LIMBO!
How low can you go?
Contest tonight in the Riviera Room!
He looked away and found himself helpless, unfortunate, staring at the empty bed jarringly empty, which had been recently attended to by housekeeping. He looked at the
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