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Warren was always jealous of people who could not help but write, until he became one of them. He first became aware something was different when he went into the kitchen and reached for the refrigerator door, only to discover his hand was missing. He didn’t scream because there was neither pain nor blood. He walked into his home office and saw his hand on his desk writing. Rather than grabbing it with his other hand and taking it to a doctor or something, he looked to see what it was writing. It was a scary story about a headless man. He didn’t scream out because he realized he couldn’t and that he was the man in the story. He wanted to look for his head but, without one, it was hard to think where to begin.
He felt around the room with his attached hand and found a foot. Although he could feel blood and pain, Warren didn’t scream because he still had no head. Suspecting the loss of his foot was the result of something his hand had just written as opposed to, say, from a sword, he reached for the paper on the desk to destroy it. The reaching hand then recoiled because the writing hand stabbed it mightily with its pen. He somehow heard a familiar scream from the kitchen and hobbled toward it for his head. His head gave orders to its body to bring it the phone so it could call the doctor. The doctor arrived with his new technology and stuff and put Warren’s head and foot back on. When the doctor went to fetch his other hand, he stopped to read what the hand was writing. It was a sad story about a very lonely hand. So the doctor felt very sorry for the hand and took it home. And that suited it just fine since it knew firsthand how isolating a life of writing would be.
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