Prosthetic Curse.

My new mechanical prosthetic hand was awesome, unlike anything I had ever imagined could exist since my accident.

My girlfriend was loving it too, as we’d hired a boat for a few days to get out on the ocean, alone, in touch with nature, and each other. The hand was responding fantastically to ‘wants’ I’d had ever since the accident, and Celia wasn’t complaining.

Well, not at first she didn’t. After a while she got tired of the groping and caressing, and at one point she yelled at me to ‘keep that $*&% hand to yourself!’

Then the big wave hit, out of nowhere, capsizing the boat and knocking us overboard. I held onto the mast with my ‘good’ arm, while Celia flailed about a couple of metres away in the turmoiled water.

Reaching my new hand out, I yelled, “Grab my hand!”

She grabbed it, and I pulled hard, instigating her motion towards the mast, and safety. As she clutched the mast, and my hand, it suddenly detached from my wrist.

Celia looked at me, looked at the hand, and threw it out into the huge waves.

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