An archetypist

The ring finger of my left hand has been asleep for a week. No amount of flexing or biting or banging-on-counters has been able to rouse it from its prickling coma.

More curious, however, is the fact that its neighboring middle finger seems to be gaining in strength. It willfully springs to attention at the most inopportune times–in traffic, in restaurants, in flocks of whining children. It used to be such a well-behaved finger, meek and unassuming. Now it’s dispatching messages I’ve given it no license to dispatch.

Police and clergymen! Yellow school busses with red flashing lights! Mediocre middling management and princesses of the acrylic nail! I beseech your forgiveness, one and all!

I don’t know what has gotten into #3. She used to be so good for pointing and scratching and other less-mentionable things. Now she flicks and offends and sends shivers down rooms of the silently acquiescent.

Ay, me! I’m beginning to wonder if it is not she who is killing my ring finger. I think, at night, she must whisper terrible things in Ring’s ear like how Ring doesn’t look good naked and will ever be unloved, until Ring cries horrible tears that sap her of vitality, until she is bent over and wedded to her own grief.

#3 is not happy until everyone is bowing to her. Neighboring phalanges! Vicodin-veined housewives! Old, sagging soul of mine!

Your day of reckoning is nigh.