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Queen of Swords

Fingers feeling over my skin—my veins—my trachea. She tries to guess—am I still enjoying it or… am I already suffocating? I sense her hesitation—however hard it might be with these fingertips. She starts panicking. Fingers—already less under control—start twitching. Seizurely, chaotically.

I start thinking—what about her surgeries? Does that happen too?

I think not. She cares—she still does. Her grip, strong and cold, cares for me and the remnants of air I hold. Air—less and less. Care—more and more.

I cannot bear the sight of her worrying. I smile at her. She smiles back. And squeezes the breath out of me again.

I feel around the cicatrix. Didn’t really heal, as they promised.

I follow one of the crevices with the very tip of my finger. Hoping to guess what a hand attached to that felt.

And just like that—I’m cornered. I feel—she wants, to

I want it too. But.

We got a new air filter. Like kids, we scampered between the aisles. Wandered around the halls. Breathed the air purified and scented for someone else. Then we chose that one exact filter—eternal—purifying—healthy. Got back home.

And fell on the floor—barely feeling for each other. I tried to pacify her, to console her. But she knew. The one thing I—all of these days—avoid touching.

This dream again. Her touch, cold and firm. She tries to be gentle and somehow even manages to. Strokes my cheek, embraces it with these smooth fingerprintless palms. I turn to kiss, she pulls away playfully.

I jump at her, covering her with kisses. Feeling—intermittently—slight powdery touch of make-up; warmth and spring of her bare skin; and the refreshing coldness and lightness of metal.

That’s when it all crumbled. Seven days to clean out the office. Sort things out with security. Device check, to ensure no patient or internal data leaks. Pick up the compensation, enough to last for half a year, at least formally. And amputation.

I hugged her all the way in the long taxi commute. The views in the window were changing—from merrily glitterning skyscrapers to unseemly facades to broken windows and dusty streets.

All this to say—I couldn’t look her in the eye. I embraced her, robotically wiped her tears, some escaping and falling on her sleeveless blouse. I talked to her, all kinds of bullshit. But I just couldn’t look her in the damn eyes.

— Ri, just promise me you’ll…

She reaches out for my hand. I loosen my grip and stretch mine in response. Our fingertips barely touch and

She breaks in tears and starts pulling at her fingers, palms, arms, shoulders. As if wishing to disconnect them already. Joints creaking and stretching… in her imagination only.

Omnius PWM Feel are a work of prosthetic art. Better than any live arms. Stronger. Lighter. Faster. Preciser. You won’t even notice the switch—feeling things again, even better, even closer, even softer. Your old hands will collect the dust, waiting for your return. Won’t happen. Just throw them out. You will never need them again.

CC-BY 4.0 2022-2026 by Artyom Bologov (aartaka,) with one commit remixing Claude-generated code. Any and all opinions listed here are my own and not representative of my employers; future, past and present.