Grip

By Ethan Perritt

My cigarette had about two puffs left when I started looking for a place to throw it away. A couple cars and an out-of-service bus passed, and crickets chirped under the moonlight as I located a trash can.

I took a drag, exhaled.

The last one burned my throat.

I stubbed the cigarette on the lip of the trashcan. I pressed the panel in, revealing the void below. Cool plastic met my skin as I pushed further, and with my right hand, I reached in just a little too far, a little too deep, and dropped the cigarette.

Something grabbed me.

Four fingers and a thumb coiled my wrist.

“What the fuck?”

I couldn't believe it—a human hand was holding my arm.

I pulled.

It wouldn't budge.

I stomped my shoe against the trashcan for leverage.

“Let go of me!”

Its grip tightened.

It was starting to hurt.

My heart beat faster and I started to panic.

“Help!” I screamed, hoping someone, anyone, would hear me. The fire station across the street had lights on inside, and there were houses down the road with TVs glowing in their windows.

But nobody came.

The hand jerked me toward the trashcan and I fell to my knees, my forearm fully submerged. I felt its index finger tapping my knuckle.

“What do you want? I don't understand!”

And the hand did not let go.