Story One, Chapter Eight

When I outstretch my hand, I recoil instinctively. It is a black and twisted thing. Like the world. Like my heart. Thin as a rope, yet long as it ever was, it reaches out. The skin is dry and tight, blackened with death, but hard as diamond. For a palm, it flattens at the end, though I cannot close it. From here sprout five fingers, each horribly long. They have four joints, except for the thumb which has two. From them grow claws, inches long, that nothing can remove. They cut and destroy all they touch. When I stand, my arms nearly reach past my knees.