Mark Joseph looked at his hand. There was nothing there; his hand had disappeared. He could feel his fingers, he could sense that his hand was there, but it was nowhere to be seen. It had completely vanished. He had the strange sensation that the rest of his body was disappearing as well. It couldn't be, yet here it was, actually happening to him. He stepped out of the tin shack he had been calling home, a place he had stolen from a hungry woman with four children. She didn't need it anyway, those brats were just mouths to feed who would be better off learning how to scrape together a living. There were plenty of street children who sold small items or ran errands, good that they learn these things now than wait until they became overgrown hungry brats. Sometimes he raged that she hadn't provided him with a better place: the train whistle was often piercing and loud, especially on cold frigid nights. He should have stolen a shack from someone with more brains; that bat brained haggard woman didn't have any sense at all. Must have been why it was so easy to take her home from her.
But back to the problem at hand. Literally at hand. He looked down. Now his arm was disappearing. So was his other hand and arm. He felt helpless. Frustrated. Impotent. But he knew that if he screamed for help, not a soul would hear him. Not a soul would help him. He clenched his fists in rage, wanting to cry but the tears weren't coming. Vanishing. He was vanishing. It was just as the gypsy lady had foretold, although he'd laughed in her face when she told him. Everything was happening exactly as she had said...
