Raven's Hands - A Prequel (story by Emma)

 The clock on the screen glows with a malevolent blue-white light: 3:17 AM. Sleep is a distant country I have no visa for. My own bed feels alien, the sheets twisted into ropes around my legs. It’s useless. My mind is a frantic moth, beating itself against a single, searingly bright image: a pair of hands. Not just any hands. Her hands.

It started with a random click, a fall down a forgotten internet rabbit hole, and now, I am consumed. The hum of the laptop is the only sound in my silent apartment, a low thrum that seems to vibrate in my teeth. I taste the stale bitterness of coffee I made hours ago, forgotten on the desk. My own hands, resting on the keyboard, look pale and childish. Insignificant.

With a sigh that feels like it’s dredged up from my very bones, I open the browser again. The forum is still there, a relic from another era of the web, but the posts are surprisingly recent. And there she is. Raven.

My eyes drink in the pictures, ignoring the grainy quality of the old JPEGs. There’s the full-body shot she mentioned, the one where she laughs about how "clearly me" it is. She’s right. She’s tall, just under 5'8" she’d written, with a casual confidence that makes my own shoulders ache with envy. But my gaze snags, as it always does, on her hands. Even at her sides, they are remarkable—long, elegant, promising. I can almost feel the cool weight of the air in the room as I imagine her sweeping her hair from her face, a simple gesture she claimed could drive a man wild. I feel a flush of heat crawl up my neck, a phantom warmth that has nothing to do with the heat venting from my laptop.

My fingers, feeling clumsy, click on another link. The stories. Raven’s Bedtime Stories. The name itself is a caress, a whisper. My heart thumps a heavy, leaden rhythm against my ribs. I start with the first one, the one with Courtney and the wine and the fire.

The air in my room suddenly feels thick with imagined scents—the sharp, fruity tang of cheap wine, the smoky perfume of a log fire, the acrid scent of nail polish remover. I read the words, and the scene builds itself around me. I see Raven, her voice a low purr as she tells Courtney about her boyfriend’s obsession. I can hear the clink of their wine glasses, the soft murmur of their conversation. When Raven describes her "favorite trick" of measuring hands with a man, I instinctively spread my own hand out on my desk, the cold laminate shocking my skin. It looks small, lost.

I scroll down, my breath catching in my throat. The words paint a picture so vivid it feels like a memory. The description of her boyfriend, so excited he "can hardly sit straight." The moment Courtney presses her hand to Raven’s. I find the infamous comparison photos, the ones that caused such a stir. Raven and Courtney. Raven’s hands, long and slender from the back, but with a breadth to the palm that is shocking, powerful. Courtney, shorter, more petite, yet her hands are undeniably large too, her palms large and flat.  But Raven’s… Raven’s are artistry and strength combined.

I continue reading, my mouth dry. The story unfolds, and I am no longer in my dark room. I am a ghost in Raven’s living room, watching as she instructs Courtney. I feel the giddy tension, the heady mix of wine and arousal. When Raven undoes her boyfriend’s pants, my own stomach clenches. The description of his erection is clinical yet charged, but my focus is on the hands. Always the hands.

Raven’s words are a masterclass in sensation. "I can feel the bulge of veins beneath my fingers." I rub my own thumb and forefinger together, the skin feeling rough and inadequate. I imagine the "short pulsating squeezes," the control, the absolute power she holds. The "bookend method." The phrase is electric. I can feel the phantom weight, the heat, the texture of skin on skin. When she instructs Courtney to spread her palm, I can see it, the large, waiting canvas. I can almost smell the clean, musky scent of arousal in the air.

I finish the story, my body humming with a strange, secondhand energy. My skin is covered in goosebumps, the fine hairs on my arms standing on end. I feel a profound, aching loneliness. It’s not just the eroticism of the story; it’s the confidence, the casual power Raven wields. She found the one part of her that made her stand out and turned it into a weapon, an art form, a source of "power."

I click through the other stories, a voyeur devouring a life. The beach competition with Courtney, the hot sand and salty margaritas I can almost taste. The strip club, the scent of stale beer and cheap perfume, Raven’s nails painted a "deepest blood red." I find myself staring at a picture of her nails, the color of a fresh wound, and I wonder what it would feel like to have that color on my own short, unimpressive nails.

The night bleeds into the grey promise of morning. A bird chirps outside my window, a sound that feels jarring and intrusive. I’ve read everything. I’ve stared at every picture until the pixels blur. I am saturated with Raven.

I push back from the desk and walk to the window, the cool wood floor a relief to my bare feet. The sky is the color of a bruise, purple and soft grey. I lift my hands into the dim light, turning them over and over. They are just hands. They type, they hold a coffee cup, they open doors. They have never been the object of anyone’s fascination. 

But now, I see them differently. I spread my fingers wide, stretching the palm, trying to see the potential Raven saw in her own. I trace the lines, the length of my nail beds. I imagine them longer, stronger, painted in "Lincoln Park After Dark." I imagine the weight of a man’s gaze on them, the heat of his breath as he kisses my palm.

A shiver, sharp and intense, runs through me. The obsession is no longer just on the screen. It’s under my skin now, a low, persistent hum. I can still feel the phantom touch of those powerful, beautiful hands, and I know, with a certainty that is both terrifying and thrilling, that I will not be sleeping tonight either. The ghost of Raven Red is in my room, and she is not leaving.