Its the morning of your big violin recital . You ’ ve woken to find that all your fingers have miraculously transformed into tiny autonomous tentacles . [ WP ]

It would make more sense if I could control the tentacles attached to my hands. Even though having tentacles instead of fingers really doesn ’ t make sense to begin with. 
 
 I ’ m not having a nightmare. I checked. I just don ’ t have any explanation for it. I went to sleep last night after a delightful dinner and practice session with my best friend/accompanist and this morning I woke up with my fingers stuck to my face. I mean my tentacles. My tentacles were stuck to my face. Oh no, my face! 
 
 I run to the mirror. Sure enough, I ’ ve got 4 rows of bright red circles where I had been sleeping on what used to be the fingers of my right hand. I lift my arm higher to get a closer look under the bright bathroom lights. Each tentacle seems to have rows and rows of tiny suction cups like an octopus. They move independently of each other. 
 
 How am I going to play the Brahms tonight? I certainly can ’ t hold a bow or press down on a string. I don ’ t even have any fingers! How am I going to pick up my toothbrush? 
 
 I frown as I watch ten wriggling tentacles intertwine, unravel, curl, and stretch of their own accord on the ends of my hands. Can I call them “ hands ” any more? Of course they ’ re still hands. Even people who lose all their fingers in a tragic accident still have hands. Am I a tentapus? No, that ’ s ridiculous. I ’ m a decapus. 
 
 I can ’ t feel them or anything I touch with them. It seems that even though my nervous system isn ’ t connected to these things, my circulatory system is. They ’ re flesh-colored, but they look like they have plenty of blood flowing through them. The color is a little more flushed than the skin on the back of my hands. Cutting them off may not only be drastic but could possibly be fatal. I ’ ll have to ask a doctor. 
 
 What would a doctor know about this? There can ’ t be others like me, can there? How would a doctor know what to do with a tentacled patient? 
 
 My hands feel heavy and unbalanced. I frown at my writhing appendages. My stomach heaves and I bend over the sink, gagging up and spitting bile. I reach for the faucet. My tentacles slap and then wrap themselves around the handle. I pull my arm back as they grip tighter and, to my surprise, the handle turns. I stick my lips under the running water and try to rinse the bitter taste out of my mouth. Reversing the motion with my arm, the floppy former fingers turn off the water. But they don ’ t let go of the handle. I tug a little and they seem to grip tighter. This is my life now. 
 
 I stare at my tentacles, willing them to let go of the faucet. Nothing happens. I yank my arm back quickly, then to the side, only to see them tighten down. I blow on them and they twitch. I blow harder and they start to loosen. I fill my lungs and blast them with every ounce of air I can muster and they finally let go. Success! I ’ ve learned how to make my fingacles let go of something. 
 
 The rush of adrenaline fades as I remember my recital. I glance at my violin case in the corner of my room. There ’ s no way I ’ m going to let these nasty tentacles anywhere near my instrument. I ’ ve got to call my professor and cancel the performance.
