"The clock has no hands. In this room, night and the day are a blur. It seems I won't be needing my thumb anymore, I might as well cut it off." He arose, and drifted from the death room to the kitchen. He slid a drawer open, glimpsed at the web of silverware, rolled his head back, and looked towards the ceiling. He jabbed his right hand into the web, dug for a few seconds, and pulled out a steak knife. Smack, his other hand landed on the splintered kitchen table. He lifted the knife above his head and brought it down, past his chest, pressing it against his thumb. With his arm motioning back and forth, blood trickled. "Who needs trees? There's no use for these." Like a saw into wood, he hit the bone; it ground as he grinned. When the knife was through, the thumb escaped onto the table without a sound. Blood poured, but to no avail.
"Why stop there? God didn't. North and south are the same, my microscope better than ever." He eyed his pointer finger, wiggling it. Arching his back, he swooped his head down and gripped the finger with his teeth. Jerking his head, he tore the skin off and swallowed it. With the flesh exposed, he sensed blood. Once again, his head came rushing and he took a bite. He continued doing this until bone and a puddle of blood lay before him. "Haha, the state of nature is cruel and I'm nobody's fool!" He picked up the knife and sawed off the bone. Thumb and pointer finger gone, the man, still conscious, pressed on.
"The middle one grows too long. It must follow the trend." He dashed to the sink. Laughing, he made a fist, lifted his middle finger, and jammed it into the drain. With his finger-hand, he flicked a switch. Nothing. He hit the switch a few more times until a sound, like an engine, roared. Blood spit from the drain, all over his face, and onto his bare chest. He tapped the switch again and pulled his hand. "There's no middle, no more." He stumbled across the floor and fell. Snap, his skin hit the floor.
While lying there, with goose bumps on his arms and blood streaming from his three stubs, he managed to lift his finger-hand to probe the surface of the table until the point of the knife cut his palm. "Ah, we meet again my friend. There's work to be done." He set the knife against his ring finger and slit some skin. Slowly he peeled away the layers. The bone was resilient, but he soldiered on. As the collection grew, the finger became slimmer. After the finger was gone, his head wavered.
He smiled at the little one. "Well, look at you, the one pin remaining, the last line. You're outnumbered, five to one. Think you've got a chance? We'll see, we'll see... Where's my hammer?" His finger-hand drug him across the floor. For a moment, his eyes grew. A tool box was in sight, yet still miles down the hallway. His pace slowed, as he inched. His eyelids kept falling, no matter how nobly he tried. He turned his head and observed the trail of blood with a tear. Finally, his arm went limp and his skin became immaculate.

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