Chapter 4 - The Alien Hand

Raghavan’s blood never left the page — it simply chose Irshad’s hands next. And now the final chapter has already begun writing him.

Raghavan sat in the waiting area of the scan center, his back straight, his eyes fixed on the floor. The room was cold, the air heavy with silence broken only by the soft hum of machines behind closed doors. People around him glanced his way now and then, their expressions a mix of confusion and discomfort.

He knew why.

His left hand was wrapped tightly in a thick cloth�"not to protect it, but to protect himself from it. His fingers twitched underneath the fabric. He pressed the hand against his thigh, trying to keep it still. But the nerves inside him were already fraying.

His name was called.

“Mr. Raghavan?”

He stood up slowly, almost cautiously, as if one wrong movement might wake the sleeping force wrapped beneath the cloth. The attendant looked at him briefly, her eyes lingering for a second longer than normal, then gestured for him to follow.

He walked behind her through a narrow corridor until they reached the doctor’s consultation room. Before he could step in, the same attendant called out again.

“Sir�"your report.”

She held out the scan file toward him.

Raghavan reached for it with his right hand.

But the moment the folder came close�"his left hand jerked violently out of the cloth, fingers curling as if trying to snatch it away. Raghavan felt his heart hammering in his chest.

“Not now… please…” he whispered to himself.

He forced his right hand forward, using it to push the left hand down�"pinning it back under the cloth. His palms were sweating. His breath came out in short, shallow bursts.

He managed to grab the report with his right hand and clutched it tightly, as if afraid the left hand might attempt something else. Without looking at anyone, he hurried into the doctor’s room and closed the door behind him.

The neurologist glanced up from his desk, taking in Raghavan’s pale face, trembling fingers, and the wrapped cloth around his arm.

“Please sit,” the doctor said gently.

Raghavan placed the report on the table with his right hand, keeping the left arm pressed tightly against his body. The doctor opened the file and began examining the scans with practiced calmness.

A long silence filled the room. After a few minutes, the doctor leaned back in his chair and took a slow breath.

“Mr. Raghavan,” he said, voice steady but serious, “I went through your scans. The fall you had recently… it has caused damage to two important areas of your brain.”

Raghavan swallowed, waiting.

“The first is the corpus callosum. It’s the bridge that allows the two hemispheres of your brain to communicate with each other.”
He paused.
“That bridge has been compromised.”

Raghavan blinked slowly. His left hand twitched under the cloth.

“And the second,” the doctor continued, “is a part of your frontal lobe �" the region that controls voluntary movement and suppresses unwanted actions.”

Raghavan felt the room tilt slightly.

“So… what does that mean?” he asked quietly.

The doctor spoke carefully, choosing words Raghavan could understand.

“It means your hand will sometimes act without your permission. It may perform movements you never intended. It may oppose what your other hand is trying to do. It may behave as though it doesn’t belong to you.”

The doctor leaned forward.

“This condition is extremely rare. It is called Alien Hand Syndrome.”

The words hung in the air like a verdict.

Raghavan’s throat tightened.
“I… I can’t control it,” he whispered.

“I know,” the doctor replied gently. “Because the part of your brain that gave you control is injured. Your hand is responding to impulses the conscious mind cannot filter. It will feel foreign. Unpredictable. Sometimes even threatening.”

Raghavan stared at his left hand, wrapped tightly, breathing softly but unevenly.

The doctor continued, “We can’t fully cure it. But we can help you manage it. You’ll need therapy… techniques to restrict movement… and assistance at home. You must not be alone during this period.”

Raghavan nodded slowly, though nothing about his world felt steady anymore. For the first time, he understood. The danger wasn’t outside. It was attached to him. Living inside him. Moving without him.

As the doctor finished speaking, Raghavan felt a faint shiver inside the cloth wrapped around his arm. The fingers of his left hand twitched�"small, almost harmless movements, but enough to send a chill through his spine.

He stared at his own arm, horrified.

“Doctor…” his voice cracked, “please… please do something. I can’t live like this. I can’t control it. I’m scared.”

His words were rushed, desperate�"nothing like the quiet man he had always been.
He looked at the doctor with eyes that held more fear than pain.

“Please cure this,” he whispered again. “I won’t survive if this continues. I can’t tolerate this anymore.”

The doctor remained calm, but there was heaviness in his expression.

“Mr. Raghavan,” he said gently, “I understand how frightening this must feel. But you need to listen to me carefully.”

He closed the scan file and leaned forward.

“This condition cannot be cured completely. The damage in your brain cannot be reversed. But�"”
he emphasized the word softly,
“�"we can manage it. We can reduce the behaviour. We can help you regain some control.”

Raghavan tightened his grip on his arm, as if afraid the hand might betray him again even in front of the doctor.

The doctor began listing the possible ways.

“You must keep that hand occupied as much as you can. Hold a small object… a stress ball, a cloth, anything. When the hand is busy, the impulses reduce.”

Raghavan nodded weakly.

“You can also keep the hand inside your pocket or under your arm when you walk or talk. It gives your brain a sense of positional control.”

He demonstrated by placing his own hand across his chest.

“And meditation, breathing exercises… these may help calm the emotional triggers that make the symptoms worse.”

Raghavan listened silently, his shoulders trembling.

The doctor opened a drawer and wrote something on a prescription pad.

“I’m giving you a few medicines,” he said. “Not to cure the condition… but to regulate your emotions. When your mind stays calmer, the involuntary movements won’t be as frequent. It will help you cope.”

He tore the paper and handed it to Raghavan.

“You’re not alone in this. But you must follow everything carefully.”

Raghavan took the prescription with his right hand, holding it as if it were the last piece of stability he had left.
His left hand twitched again under the cloth, reminding him that the battle had already begun.

Nothing felt familiar anymore�"
not his body,
not his thoughts,
not even his own shadow.

And as he stepped out of the doctor’s room, he realized: For the first time in his life, he was afraid of himself.

Gowtham took a slow, heavy breath and closed the booklet and placed it on his clinic’s table. When he looked at me, there was a faint surprise in his eyes �" the kind that comes when something unsettling begins to make too much sense.

“Perfect ending for this chapter,” he said quietly.

But the way he said it made it sound less like praise and more like concern. He hesitated for a second, then asked, “Is this all? Or… is there more?”

Without speaking, I handed him the next booklet �" the continuation of the story.

Gowtham accepted it with a seriousness I wasn’t used to seeing on his face. He adjusted his glasses and started reading. The room was silent, except for the soft sound of pages turning. His expressions changed as he read �" eyebrows tightening, jaw clenching, his breath slowing. None of the reactions were casual. Every page seemed to pull him deeper into something he didn’t expect.

Then he suddenly stopped. His eyes froze on one particular page. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe for a moment. Slowly, he lifted his gaze and looked straight at me �" the look of someone who had seen something he wished he hadn’t.

Raghavan stood alone in a mall restroom, facing the mirror. The fluorescent light above flickered faintly, casting an unsteady reflection across his face.

His left hand was covered in blood. Not dripping, not fresh �" just smeared across his fingers and palm like a memory that wouldn’t wash off. Using his right hand, he tried to scrub it off under the running tap. He rubbed hard. Hard enough for the skin to turn red. Hard enough to show how desperate he was. His breathing grew uneven. The more he washed, the more restless he became.

He finally stopped, stared at his trembling left hand for a second, and slipped it deep into his pant pocket. He didn’t take it out again �" not even by accident.

Raghavan walked out of the restroom, his pace fast, almost anxious. He kept his head down while moving through the mall corridor and took the escalator down to the basement parking. Only when he reached his bike did he allow himself to exhale.

He opened his bag and took out a small stress ball �" bright yellow with a printed smiley face. He squeezed the ball tightly with his left hand.
Once.
Twice.
Again.

But the tremor in his fingers didn’t stop. His mind could not focus. The ball slipped from his hand and rolled across the floor.

Something inside him snapped.

He suddenly turned toward the staircase leading up to the next level. He checked the area quickly �" no one was watching.

He took a step forward. And then he let himself fall.

He tumbled down the stairs deliberately, each roll hitting harder than the last. But he wasn’t trying to hurt himself �" he was trying to hurt the problem.

Every time his body hit a step, he forced his left hand out, slamming it against the concrete edge, the metal railing, the floor.

By the time he reached the bottom, his left arm was throbbing with pain, almost numb.

He lay still for a few seconds, breathing through the agony.

Then he slowly got up, opened his bag with shaking fingers, pulled out a thick cloth, and wrapped his left hand tightly. He tied the cloth across his neck �" the way someone with a fractured arm would secure a sling.

Raghavan didn’t wait at the reception of the Neurology clinic which he already visited few days back. He didn’t listen to the nurses calling after him.
He pushed past everyone standing in his way and rushed straight toward the neurologist’s room.

His entire body was trembling. His face was bruised, his shirt torn, his left arm wrapped tightly in a makeshift cloth sling. His eyes �" more than anything �" showed the tension inside him.

The doctor was in consultation with a couple seated in front of him. All three of them turned when the door burst open. The couple’s expressions shifted instantly �" from annoyance to shock. They stood up without a word and hurried out of the room, their faces pale after seeing the bruises, the sling, and the frantic look in Raghavan’s eyes.

The doctor stared at him, stunned.

“What is this, Raghavan? You’re not supposed to enter like this!” His voice was firm, but his eyes were already scanning Raghavan from head to toe.

Bruised cheek.
Scraped forehead.
Left arm hanging unnaturally.
Pain radiating through every breath he took.

“What have you done to yourself?” the doctor asked quietly, realizing this was far worse than anything he had prepared the man for.

Raghavan’s expression broke.

All the emotions he had been holding inside �" fear, frustration, anger, helplessness �" rose at once. His voice cracked as he spoke, half-shouting, half-crying.

“I… I voluntarily broke my left arm. I had to. I followed everything you told me. I tried everything. Nothing helped!” His chest heaved with each word. “I can’t tolerate this anymore. I can’t… please… just admit me. Do something. Please!”

He was shaking uncontrollably, like a man standing at the edge of his sanity.

“Raghavan, calm down,” the doctor said, trying to guide him toward the chair. “Sit down… we can talk�"”

“No!” Raghavan shouted, stepping back. “I’m begging you… fix this! I am losing control. It’s… it’s doing things… it’s doing things I don’t want!”

His voice broke into sobs �" raw, unfiltered, desperate.

The doctor glanced toward the door. The attendant appeared, alarmed by the shouting. The doctor gave her a subtle signal �" Call security. She nodded and rushed away.

In the meantime, the doctor stepped forward and spoke more softly.

“Raghavan, look at me. I know you’re scared. We’ll stabilize you. But you must sit. Please…”

But Raghavan wasn’t hearing anything anymore.

A sudden tremor ran through his left arm �" even inside the sling.

His eyes widened.
“Not now… please… not now…”

Before the doctor could step back, Raghavan’s left hand ripped free from the cloth restraint. His fingers curled around the heavy paperweight on the desk.

“Raghavan!” the doctor shouted, but the warning came too late.

The hand moved on its own �" quick, violent �" striking the doctor’s head before Raghavan’s conscious mind could even process what was happening.

Raghavan screamed.

“No! Stop! Please�"STOP!”

His right hand tried to pull the left away, but it was useless. The arm moved with a terrifying independence, as if driven by a will buried deep inside him.

The paperweight struck again.

“I’m not doing this!” Raghavan cried, tears spilling down his face.
“Doctor, please… please believe me… it’s not me… it’s my hand…”

Another blow.

“Forgive me… please forgive me… I don’t want this…”

His voice cracked under the weight of terror and helplessness.

The left hand kept swinging, while the rest of his body recoiled from every impact. The swinging did not stop until the skull broke, until the skull bone punctured the brain, until the face completely collapsed and even after the doctor’s soul left his body

Gowtham shut the booklet abruptly and put it on the table. The sound echoed across the cold AC room.

I sat there without blinking, without shifting, without letting a single expression escape my face. The booklet rested on the table between us like a piece of evidence neither of us wanted to touch again.

Gowtham, on the other hand, was sweating. Not lightly �" nervously. The cold air from the AC brushed against his forehead, but the beads of sweat stayed, glistening under the white tube light. His eyes drifted across his own desk.

A steel ruler.
A pair of scissors.
A solid paperweight.

For a moment, he simply stared at them �" the way someone looks at something that might unexpectedly come alive. Then, without saying anything, he reached forward and gathered them all in one quick, practiced motion. He bent down and dropped everything into the dustbin under the table. The clatter echoed in the quiet room.

I didn’t react. I didn’t question him. I didn’t even look at the dustbin.

My mind was elsewhere. I was starting the final chapter today. And I wanted a level of intensity I had never touched before. The capsules had helped me reach emotional states I didn't know existed. Now I wanted more. I had already consumed every pill Gowtham had given me. What I needed next wasn’t just emotional support �" I needed something powerful enough to carry anger, irritation, violence… in their purest form.

Gowtham pulled a tissue from the box and wiped his face slowly, as if clearing away the fear. When he finally looked at me again, there was something unfamiliar in his expression �" something close to worry.

“Irshad…” he said softly, “I’ve never seen you write something this violent. This isn’t you. Something feels… strange.”

His voice trembled at the edges. Instead of addressing his concern, I leaned forward slightly.

“I’m working on the final chapter,” I said. “It’s more intense than anything I’ve written. I need stronger pills, Gowtham. The emotions need to be sharper this time.”

He froze. Then he shook his head firmly.
“No. I’m not giving you anything more.”

I stared at him.

“Irshad,” he continued, voice lowering, “your writing doesn’t feel normal anymore. It is changing… becoming unpredictable. I’m not comfortable encouraging this. And I’m definitely not giving you stronger doses.”

It was the first time Gowtham had ever refused me. And the first time in our long friendship that disappointment rose inside me �" slow, sharp, and unfamiliar. A disappointment he had never seen in my eyes before.

I still don’t know what switched inside me in that moment. Something quick. Something silent. Something that didn’t wait for my permission. Before Gowtham could say another word, I stood up. My chair scraped across the floor, a sharp sound that made him flinch.
And then�"without warning�"I grabbed his hair with both my hands. His eyes widened in shock.

“Irshad�"wait�"”

I didn’t wait. I dragged him backward and slammed his head against the wall behind him.
The sound echoed through the room �" a dull, heavy thud that seemed too loud for that small clinic.

“Please… just give me the capsules…” I heard myself pleading, my voice breaking, trembling.
“I’m sorry, Gowtham… I’m so sorry… but I need them… I need them…”

My words fell out exactly like Raghavan’s had. A mixture of apology, desperation, and something far darker I didn’t recognize. I hit his head again. And again.

Each time the impact echoed, I begged for the capsules. Each time his body grew weaker, I begged for forgiveness. Just like Raghavan.

The line between his world and mine… between fiction and reality… blurred completely.

And then Gowtham’s body went still. His knees buckled. His hands slid off the table.
He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious. The room fell silent. All I could hear was my own breathing �" fast, uneven, animal-like. Slowly, I lowered my gaze to my hands.

Both were covered in blood. Warm. Sticky and Alarming.

I stared at them for a long moment, unable to move, unable to process what I had done. Raghavan had stained only his left hand. But both of mine were marked. Both.

A strange realization crept up my spine:

The blood on Raghavan’s hands…
had followed me here.
And now it belonged to me.