Why, hello, there! I understand you'd like to hear about wrists! Well, you've come to the right place. Entirely the right place. Why, I've got catalogues of wrists, diagrams of wrists, calculations regarding wrists, theories about wrists, even the odd treatise on wrists... they are, you could say, a passion of mine.
Sorry, love, sorry. I digress. You want to hear about wrists in general, not yours, not mine, not anyone's in particular, just... wrists. Oh, but wrists are such nice things, glorious things, possibly the most graceful part of the human body. And the feline body, too, have you ever actually examined a cat's wrists? They truly are amazing.
But some people have such beautifully sculpted wrists! They're perfect, absolutely perfect, fine works of art, impeccable of craftsmanship and I could go on about them all day, the lovely curves, graceful bones, symmetric tendons, delicate veins, all in one pretty little section, arm to hand. Hand to arm. It's all in the wrist.
The wrist itself
It is quite pristine, you know, the construction of the wrist. Many, many bones. That's all it is, bones, bones, bones, such lively little bones, lovely little bones. But put the bones together, flesh them out with cord and skin and muscle and the symmetry of function comes together: perfection. Just look at the proportions, so precise.
Even the tendons are exact. There are no muscles in the fingers, you know. None at all; I've checked. No, every muscle for the so precious human hand resides in the forearm, sculpting the wrist, operating each function through that one pristine control vertex. That one pristine wrist.
And despite the illusion the curves will provide, there never is a smaller point than at the wrist. Just different alignments, the bones... they're... try it. You don't believe me? I know wrists... here. Wrap your fingers around your wrist, really. It is the smallest point on the arm; it may seem smaller further up the forearm, but the wrist really is the finest point.
Finest in so many ways.
And your wrists...
Yours really are especially fine. Exceptional, in fact. The soft angles flickering in the old florescent light, quivering tendons casting hard shadows across the valleys of your palms, perfect little hairs gracing the backside of your arms, oh, but they are impeccable! Such grace and curvature would befit Aphrodite herself, the way your bones roll in the joints, the way the muscles turn, the way the light and shadows play across the fine, fine wrinkles...
I have a few in my collection up to this level of masterwork, but only a few. They are, after all, very hard to come by. Wrists this fine and very hard to come by, indeed.
But you... you don't even see it, do you? Living with these fine wrists your entire life, and you do not even appreciate what a blessing they are, what masterpieces they are, what impeccable perfection lives at your extremities. You are a right David, a Venus, a Galathea, statue given life, and yet just like any living thing, you do not see what you have.
People never see what they have.
Never... appreciate... what they have.
I think I'll keep them.
You certainly don't deserve them. You don't even see them, even though they're right in front of you. Every moment of every day, right... in... front... of you! You just use them, take them for granted. All those lovely little wrists receive from you is abuse and disdain, and meanwhile they slowly fade apart, disintegrating at the cellular level, infinitesimally losing all vestiges of the beauty they once had. How much have they lost already? How much? What wrists did you have five years ago? Ten years? Twenty?
Oh, the humanity! The loss!
This cannot continue! This must not continue! I... yes. You may abuse them, but I... I would cherish them. No, I will cherish them. I will keep them and protect them, and with me, they will live on forever. Unlike you. I don't imagine you'll survive much longer at all, certainly not after I'm done with you, but that won't be much of a loss. Your only real redeeming quality was your wrists, after all. Such delicate, graceful, strong wrists.
Without them, you won't be anything at all.
So I'll just take them. You really weren't using them anyway.
This will only hurt a bit.
Just a wee bit. Don't be afraid; you'll soon be dead anyway, but your wrists... your wrists will live on without you. They'll do just fine, better, in fact, without the rest of you dragging them down... they may even live on forever. I guess that kind of makes them immortal. In a way, that kind of makes you immortal; people really only last as long as their most powerful legacy, after all. Yours is your wrists, and indeed, they will last. I just need to remove them and properly preserve them... and they can finally be at home. With the others. So many others...
Don't worry, the other incubators... er, previous owners, they had misgivings at first, too. But they got over it, as shall you. A small price for immortality, no?
Love, hold still.
Well, you really don't want this, do you? It's odd; neither did the others, and you're even more energetic than most of them... it's strange, to put up so much of a fight for something so worthless. I am, after all, going to maintain your one nice quality. Rather odd that the rest of you is trying so painfully to not die... but okay. Run around, panic-stricken. I'm set up for this permutation, anyhow, so it's fine by me; it won't do you a jot of good, not one jot at all. You're not getting out of here. The building's sealed. Windows blocked, doors bolted, walls secure and not even a prybar in sight.
I assure you, you and your wrists are not getting out.
But by all means, go on. Do try. I'll just wait until you tire yourself out, then. Save me some money on paralytics if you're already passed out for the operation.
I'll just wait right here.
A glorious collection
Ah, you're coming around. Finally; you really were out cold.
There, there. See? Was that so hard? It was a long night, but you finally made it. You passed out, good for you! After all of the terror and hope and despair and panic and fatigue and manic struggles and violent outbursts, your body finally betrayed you and you fell asleep at last. I was with you every minute of it, of course, every minute; such excitement! The harrowing descent into madness and despair, mania and dementia, the ride of emotions, so invigorating, and the... the display of such fine wrists through movement and light and shadow, through every action, every turn! So stimulating! I also had to be sure you didn't damage the wrists, mind, but I'd like to say, you did just fine. Fortunate, since I'd have had to let you go if you did ruin them, and that would have been a right shame. There just wouldn't be much point in preserving ruined wrists, see.
But all of your bones are still perfect, the valleys still immaculate, and the hairs, well, there are some little ruffles, but that's just fine. Just fine. I'll clean the things off and smooth them, of course, though they're setting right now. How do they look?
Oh, calm down. Yes, I took your wrists. Yes, you're bleeding to death on the floor, but is that so bad? Next to these fine wrists, all of the suffering in the world just fades to dust. It's meaningless. All so very meaningless...
But that's what collections are for, of course! All of my collections, that's what they're for. The writings, the catalogues, the images, even the wrists themselves, such perfect wrists. Gleaming beacons of purpose amidst the chaos of the world, these, for they are such fine specimens. All of them, fine specimens.
And yours shall sit front to the lot, the masterful centrepiece of my gallery of perfection.
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