Clasped Hands Both of Peter’s hands were sealed tightly together like an oyster, held a foot in front of his pumping chest. His hands were so tightly forced, that water could be kept between them in an orb. He was dapperly dressed in a well-made sweater grey suit. All the buttons and folds were perfectly in place, and perspiration burst Rorschach test marks symmetrically on his tensed form. There was a box between his hands, that he knew nothing about the contents of, only that he is to keep it safe. His mind drove wildly as to what it could be. What he saw that convinced him he had to keep the box in his hands safe, was indescribable. The things the wrinkled thing did when handing the box over to Peter were instantly persuasive. The thing had evidently come a long way with the box, and the sounds it was making didn’t need to be English for him to understand. Peter gritted his teeth as he ran franticly from safe spot to safe spot, until a drop of rain hit his forehead. This threw peter into a ball on the ground. His hands were tight between his legs, legs were bent and his cheek hit hard against the pavement. There was a long scratch up his cheek from the pavement over his eyebrow. The contents of this box had to be kept safe. The wrinkled thing was covered in scars and was bleeding too, for this reason. Peter slid his face closer to his knees and peered through his fingers: SEMPER INANIS He read. It didn’t matter what was in this box, he had to keep it safe. People threw coins at him as they passed him, tightly curled in a soaking ball of sweat and rain. He stayed there for a few weeks, after slowly rolling into a nearby alleyway. A shopkeeper had soon become quite concerned, and began bringing sandwiches out, that he found uneaten unless they were put right underneath his mouth. The suit material on him was nothing more than cosmetic and he was vibrating with the cold, the shopkeeper wrapped him in a blanket. This was the only time Peter had said anything: “Tighter” he gargled as he was wrapped. The only strength he had was in the blanket he was wrapped in, his skin was torn and thin like papier mache. He bent over Peter and peeled back the blankets and parted his weak legs as he croaked in protest. He found the box clasped in his limp hands, it was a three inch cube that had some Latin written deeply into it. The box was poorly carved untreated wood, and was tarnished dark brown with the thousands of tight fists that had clasped it. The shopkeeper was a jeweller, quite familiar with Latin. SEMPER INANIS: - “always empty” Like the curiosity of any human being, his thumbs were led to the loosely hinged lid to open it. The Shopkeeper jumped as Peter stood up sharply. His head hanging back, like strings had brought him up only by the neck. A loud crack of a whip sounded as Peters arms spun in a flash and clasped the box tightly shut with the shopkeeper’s hands. The force of this had broken bones in both their hands. Peter’s head slowly rose from a twisted hanging position, and his jaw began to drop, just a little further than the elasticity of his cheek muscles could comfortably bear. There was a slight tearing of the skin at the corners of Peter’s mouth; a possession had overtaken him like puppeteer had slipped his arm into him like a glove. The puppeteer evidently had very large hands. Peter mouthed three words, as a siren sounded the same three from the ground below his feet, far below. IN MANUS NUNC With each word, the jaw was snapped back so hard that teeth crumbled, as the thumb of the puppeteer often missed the upper jaw. Peter’s eyes looked like toothpicks were in place, they were being held open by a possessive mechanism. His eyes were spinning left and right madly and were purple with burst blood vessels. What the shopkeeper saw next was indescribable, and instantly persuaded him to keep the box safe. ‘In my hands now’ he translated.