i.

Where my left hand lays, limply resting on my thigh, there is something wrong. For a moment I cannot deem the reason it looks wrong, but it does. Something about the picture disturbs me, and it's not just because of the blood caked to my pasty skin and bony knuckles.

It dawns on me why the picture looks wrong. Honestly, it takes me a moment.

When the realization hits I fight the urge to vomit.

I'm fairly certain I haven't always had four fingers on my left hand.