Hands

 They've cut off my arms. But somehow I'm still holding myself strangely, bent over, sliding along the metal walls.

Jot clutches a toy car. Woohoo. He holds it from above and with his hand, it flies across the carpet at supersonic speed.
The ensnared toy car is probably some foreign model, a two-seater, black, perfectly imitated. It usually sits somewhere on a shelf, where an unusual order, evenness, and neatness reign. Dolls, pipes, excavators, tractors, blocks, puzzles, plastic air-guzzling devices—everything has its place.
This Buumbuuumek might be a Jaguar, a BMW, or a Mitsubishi. In something like that, you discover true, revealed speed, a kind of boundlessness and non-horizontality lying perpendicular to the carpeted road.
Jot clutches the car; it's his key to the future, a plastic, disposable key.
After the break, Ala has a cat. The cat has Ala. What do you call it? Dependence, symbiosis? A kitten climbed onto the fence. And what is this supposed to be? Physical fitness, mobility, extreme sports, or perhaps a desire for suicide?
Jot has a sialala tratata primer. There, Ala, tucked flat on one side, lies shrunken, inhuman, with bulging eyes. Something had long since run over the cat. Perhaps it was Jot? Apparently he, because he was immediately thrown into a corner, branded with oblivion, as dustballs tend to do, especially in corners and other nooks.
It was never peaceful here; constant excesses slapped faces and embarrassed, even slaughtered. It only took someone to go outside and return a few minutes later, and a strange, demoralizing devastation would rip through the walls.
He's fighting! He's fighting! Jot couldn't take it anymore, he crawled out of the corner with a metal club. The boy simply got irritated, naturally, and since Er was standing next to him and had a strange expression on his face, Jot helped him and fixed him. Now he's actually smiling. It's just cooperation, peer support.
If someone doesn't understand, then they go to traffic, private lessons, consultations, recovery programs, resocialization, the teacher said.
And then there were the fights again. Because that Zet didn't understand and started crying. He shook convulsively as if he was delirious from misunderstanding. Then some general instability took over him and he hit the teacher with a block.
Help, I think I'm dying from that Mitsubishi that ran me over! My blood is pounding in strange waves, here and there, here and there... my body is pulsating, I seem to be dying. Did I get hit by a block, or did something really hit me? All I know is that they cut off my arms. They're gone, I can't feel them...
Mom, I can't do my homework because I have no arms! A strange helplessness has me pinned in a corner. I cringed, hoping no one would see me. The life was pouring out of me in pulses.
Here, here, here... I think I want to go home... I think I'm dying... I can't see anything... Where are my glasses??? I can't believe Mr. Hilary lost his glasses, haha!!! Some Joe sat down next to me and is laughing. I can't believe I'm wearing sunglasses, hence this ignorance that's gripping me. But I don't take them off; I fumble for words and compose them, and I press them against his ear.
Listen, man, why are you so mean and tormenting me? I'll tell you one thing: I don't know how much longer I'll live, because I feel like I've been dying since birth. I'm very scared, so don't be surprised that I'm hiding in the corner of this huge room crammed with people. I don't care what happened to them; why they're jumping and jumping around like that doesn't interest me either. I'm limited to myself and dependent on myself.
What terrifies me most, however, is the fact that I've been asked to choose something, some luminous paths have appeared before me, all simple, trivially easy. And I don't have hands, so how am I supposed to press that stupid button? It's not funny, I don't know what to do with this life that's slipping away through my nonexistent hands! Everything is simple, everything is simple...
here, here, here. The sounds here are strangely simple. They stretch and become trivial in the air, in the smoke, the haze, you pick me up and carry me, let a song be made in my honor, haha... Jot is a Scot who climbed the fence where Ali the cat used to sit...
You'll be over it in two hours. Come, let's sit on the bench.
Give me your hand, Jot whispered to me. You found my hand! I have my hand!
Yes, you have both, he continued to whisper, for you to finally do something with yourself.