There’s a house of cards in front of me. It’s not really a house and those aren’t really cards–it could be anything, from the future I’ve spent my whole life building to the relationship that, even now, balances precariously on whatever I choose to do next–but it’s that fragile, that tenuous that a stiff breeze, a sudden shift, could bring it all tumbling down.
It has myriad rooms, dozens of hundreds of little channels and tunnels, all regularly interspersed with exacting precision, the only support in a wavering structure. It takes a gentle touch to change it, to alter it without smashing it beneath a benevolent fist, but my hand is shaking and the fingers are cold, clumsy with the lack of blood and oxygen. They’re digits choking on the ends of a decayed husk, a dry and drained corpse afforded only the barest of control.
Jitterbug hand, jumping bean fingers, arthritis and rheumatism of the spirit plunging down, bending and warping cards as the structure folds in on itself, individual pieces shooting off and slicing the air, thin rectangles of destroyed spirit. My hand strikes the table and she hits the wall, a red imprint in the shape of my hand outlined on her cheek, fingers spread. The skin of my palm tingles, burns.