Page 11 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

Every being is always filled with something. This something has been an integral part of human existence since time began. They are a collection of ephemeral qualities that philosophers have tried to articulate for centuries. But the nothingness is a concept so abstract, so foreign, that a mere mortal’s mind cannot comprehend it. How could I possibly begin to convey the utter absence deeply lodged within me?

Not ex nihilo nihil fit, but rather nihil sum. Ex nihilo venio.

I am nothing. I come from nothing.

The moment I remove my evening glove, my breath abruptly dies in my throat. What I see is not my once regular human hand. Instead, veins and arteries wind over each finger like ancient roots. Blood pulses through them like the dancers on the stage. Roused. Obtrusive.

My pulse quickens, then ice crawls up my chest. I turn my hands, shake them, try to rub the crimson lines off with my thumb. But to no avail. I feel the skin’s texture with its calluses and fine hairs on my hands, but it’s all invisible to the eye.

I run to the washbasin, certain this must be some trick of the light. When I remove the second glove, that hand exhibits the same features.

Soap. I need more soap. Perhaps if the water was scalding hot?

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

I run my hands through my hair, but it resembling aspic sickens me. The room starts to blur, and I have to grip the wall to not fall onto the tile below. Still, the beiges and ochres call to me. So I slide down, legs spread wide, staring at my hands, refusing to believe what my eyes can plainly see.

I shut them, wishing with all my might that when I open them again, everything will be as it once was.

This is a dream. Yes, some strange fever dream.

I knew there was something the matter with me. Even the physician observed it. I simply overexerted myself at the ballet. It explains my despondency. It explains the visions. Yes, that is it. I laugh in relief, open my eyes, then look at my hands again.

Ruby rivers sprawl over every finger. Faint yellow cotton lines my palms. They are wrapped tightly in red twine, forbidding any thoughts of escape.

Please. No.

I tear off my evening dress, layers of a once ordinary man suddenly transmuted into nothing but a forgotten puddle on the floor. With every stripped garment, another shred of hope vanishes that normalcy remains beneath.

In nothing but my drawers, I examine the rest of me. When I follow my veins, I’m relieved to see them vanishing beneath my skin halfway to my elbow. The rest seems to be as it always was. Pale skin scattered in freckles. A few small scars. A trail of hair beneath my navel.

Maybe Aphra could—

Without hesitation, I ring my sister.

“Something is happening to me,” I say breathlessly.

“Hello, Orlando. How nice of you to call. I’m well, thank you for asking,” she replies in her usual nonchalant manner.

“It’s no laughing matter, Aphra. I’m serious.”

The moment she hears my words, her tone shifts. “What is the matter?”

“My hand. It’s not normal. I—” Frustrated at my inability to form a more coherent sentence, I interrupt myself. How could one begin to explain such a thing?

“Have you tried a physician?”

“No. I mean, yes. But it’s not like that,” I answer, running a hand through my hair. I must have done this so often in the past hour that it’s starting to curl at the top.

“Orlando, you’re making very little sense.”

I take a breath, forcing my thoughts into order. “It’s just, well…” I sigh, then continue. “When I returned from the ballet—”

She cuts me off with a gasp. “Oh, my darling worm! Did you meet Lady Black and Vaslav? You must have been so nervous. I know how much you fancy him,” she says, as brazen as always.

“That is precisely the problem. I felt nothing.” I say, sliding into the bergère next to me.

“What do you mean you felt nothing? I remember you confessing how you stirred when you last saw him. Was there no stirring?”