Tom watched, aghast, as the faces surged around him. “Not my legs,” he screamed, but the menacing audience roared. His feet, once firmly attached to his shins, were no more; eyes and tongues mocked and stabbed. His knees went the same way, and his thighs dithered in hesitant translucence before making their exit. More eyes, glowing like giant malevolent fireflies, danced around him.
The gruesome spectacle fuelled the cries of the onlookers.
A gruff moan: “The arms; do the arms now”
Tom was frantic, and tried to free himself. He was unable to move the remains of his legs, and although he could feel his arms, he couldn’t see them, or use them to help himself.
In the corner, Aunte Gertie reassured Tom. She could do this cheerfully, from her secure position behind the rubber plant, as she was still present in her entirety.
She grinned maniacally. “It happens, Tom. You’ll get them back.”
“How do you know?” Tom was now beside himself and sweating exuberantly, and looked around for more dependable words of comfort.