His Hands
His hands are long and slender, his fingers like spiders crawling over my skin, a tingling sensation that sends chills up my spine and quickens my pulse. There is venom in his fangs, a poison more potent than any substance known to man. It numbs the mind and the body as he weaves a web of music, those skeletal, skinny fingers caressing a song from the keys. It is a siren's call and I am the sailor. He is the spider and I am the fly. Yet I go willingly to my doom—his living bride—so that I may give him life. Even if it means the end of all that I have ever known. Oh, Erik! You will be the death of me, and yet I love you still.
Those hands have killed a thousand men. Those hands are stained with blood. They have bruised and they have broken. They have strangled and they have smothered. Even now I sometimes dream I feel those cold, dead fingers on my throat. I cannot breathe! I cannot think! And there is blackness all around and I am falling…falling…falling…
And yet…those hands have held our little child. Those hands are filled with love. They have caressed and they have calmed. They have stroked and they have soothed. Even now I am amazed as I watch those spindly fingers brush a tear from our daughter's eye, the cool pad of his thumb a comfort against her reddened cheeks. I cannot fathom this man. I cannot comprehend how he has changed. But there was goodness in him all along. Of that I'm certain.
I love his hands because they fit so perfectly in mine.