A crop-dusting plane sits in my living room, talking to my arms.
“I have a secret,” it whispers.
My arms lie there, attached to my torso, silent.
“Don’t you want to know what it is?” the plane asks.
I look at it, stealing glances out the window.
It stares at my arms. I start to feel uncomfortable.
“Fine,” the plane says.
It tries to fold its wings like arms but can’t bend the steel.
I hear it straining. My arms casually fold themselves.
The plane sees this.
“Screw you,” it says. It farts a chemical mist out of its wings.
“Don’t you wish you knew what the hell that is?” it asks my arms
My arms remain still.
The plane shifts, pointing its misting hoses at my arms.
“Ask me what it is,” the plane says.
My arms stay silent.
“Ask me!” it screams.
We sit in silence.
“Remember,” the plane says finally, “this was your decision.”
It farts billows of mist over my arms and chest.
I stand and kick the plane, denting its side.
The plane laughs.
My skin starts to burn.
I rush to the sink and wash the mist off, but that only makes it worse.
The skin on my arms bubbles, pustules forming and popping down my forearms.
The plane is still laughing.
The burning doesn’t stop.
