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Everyone missed the car the bag tumbled out of. As exciting as that might have been for whoever was driving behind them, that lucky soul had long since passed down the road, leaving the black plastic lump in plain view of the public. Everyone missed the car that ran it over, too. They didn’t see the trash that jumped out- or they didn’t mind. Trash was trash. Flattened coffee cups and napkins bounced and flitted around in the wakes of the vehicles flying past, the shell of the busted open garbage bag doing nothing to keep its contents in place. Most puzzling of all, to the one who saw, was that nobody else seemed to notice the hand.
It didn’t tumble out like the rest of the refuse. It wasn’t light enough. Instead, it flopped out onto its palm, cradled in the bag’s open cavity, and sat safe on the yellow stripe marking the road’s middle. From their seat in the nearby cafe, the witness stared, dumbstruck, too rattled to even blink. Nausea dawned on them, black coffee frothing up into their throbbing throat, and their body made them spring to their feet to vomit. But they were denied their relief, and the beverage bubbled back into their belly, settling with a hot groan. Standing up, their vantage point was far better than before, and they were sure now. It wasn’t a toy, or food, or any other comforting explanation. It was, to their horror, a human hand.
The skin of the hand was red, like ketchup mixed into milk, with a wine-dark crust outlining each visible nail and pooled into every wrinkle in the knuckles. The stump was hidden under a grease-soaked paper fry tray, so the manner of separation was unclear to the witness. It laid undisturbed, with every automobile taking care to avoid the shape perched in the road’s middle. It was in plain view to anyone who bothered to look. Why, then, did no one else seem to take notice?
Feeling the burn of vomit gurgle up into their chest again, the witness sat back down and swallowed more coffee, as it was all they could do. The situation they found themself in made their chest tighten and their face grow warm with worry. Swallowing spit to keep the gas down, they considered their options. Calling the police seemed to be the responsible thing to do, but they had to be sure it was worth the trouble. After all, no one else seemed to be alarmed. Were they seeing things? And did they really want to stop traffic to sift through some litter to make sure there was nothing there? No, that was too risky to them. Nobody likes to look crazy, especially when police are involved. Still, they had to verify their suspicions, as the total lack of a panic was bothering them. They were almost certain that there was a severed human hand in the road, and yet, they seemed to be the only one that noticed. The strangeness of it all was too much to ignore, and they didn't want to chicken out, as it were, and let another party handle the situation without them. And so, in a moment of selfish curiosity, the witness made their decision. They burped to themself, scooted their chair a little to the right, and waited.
It was the middle of the lunch rush when the witness began their watch. Their eyes rarely left the hand, allowing for blinking and cars passing in front of the piece of flesh. Car after car drove by, people strolled along the side of the road, and even a few crows swooped down to inspect the scraps offered to them in the rubbish. Towards the end of the afternoon, a young family walked in front of the cafe, then faced the road and lingered, watching the cars rush by. A mother, a father, and two young children. They were waiting to cross the street, and they were going to walk right past the hand, to the witness’ dark delight. They watched with a nervous, uncomfortable glee, quietly willing a long enough break in the passing traffic for the family to cross the road. And finally, their will would be done; in the lane closest to the cafe, a big delivery truck groaned and hissed to a stop, giving the family time to start their hurry to the other side. The witness held their breath, not daring to blink as the four held hands and jogged past the trash bag and its gruesome prize. They made it safely across. Not one of them saw the hand. They walked right past it. The little son almost stepped on it in his waddling, and none of them saw the damned thing. The witness felt their chest start to burn again, but no amount of cold coffee would cool the anger they felt coiling up in their heart. There the hand sat, mocking them for getting their hopes up. They weren’t meant to share in the horror of knowing it was there- this burden was theirs alone to bear. This went on until the sun went down and the cafe closed, and the witness was made to leave. They left in a huff and stood at the side of the road, glaring at their fleshy charge. Was this someone's idea of a sick joke? Had something sinister singled them out, just to toy with them?? Why didn't anyone else see???
In an instant, all the fear they'd felt over the mystery appendage melted away and burned into a sizzling hatred, and they stormed onto the road to destroy the red thing that tormented them. They didn’t see the headlights or hear the horn blare its warning. All they saw, all they felt, all they knew, was the hand.
The truck was fine after the impact, but the body was flung far down the road like it was nothing. Bones splintered, organs burst, skin peeled and scraped away into sheets and paste along the asphalt like cheese. Everyone saw what happened. When the EMTs came to scoop the remains into a body bag, they found that for all their efforts, they never could find the victim's right hand.