Fingerprints

I can’t feel my fingerprints.

I used to be able to but now when I rub the tips of my fingers together there’s nothing but a warm, dry smoothness. No ridges, no ripples, no whorls, no lines, no curls. I can see them but I can’t feel them. I don’t know what this means. I mentioned it to the people I work with but they just laughed or looked at me strange. So I won’t mention the other things.

Like how for as long as I can remember I’ve always used two pillows in bed. Sometimes more but I’ve never been comfortable with less. And yet last night I realised that I was using only the one. I’ve been using only the one for nearly a month and I only just realised. I tried to use two and it didn’t feel right. It just didn’t feel right.

How can I tell I’m still me? How do I know who I am? I checked the scars on my fingers. They’ve always been good reminders. Faithful companions. Two long ones on my right thumb form a large Y.  But when I look I see that they don’t. They only make a V. The indentation on the lowest knuckle of my left thumb is still there, still familiar.

And the rest. There should be more. Surely there’s more? Where are the scars on my fingers from the tin cans? From the window? I can’t find them. I can’t even remember where they should be. They have to be there but I can’t find them.

Am I still myself? Am I living somebody else’s life? Or am I somebody else living my life? How do I know? How can I tell?

I can’t feel my fingerprints.