catching sand He had a habit of catching things.
Usually, good things. A basketball, or a cat falling from a tree, or his baby sister, one memorable time, as she fell out of her crib.
It was instinct to him, second nature. He didn't need to think about it—his hands acted independently from the rest of him, completely on their own accord, risk and volition. His hands, to him, were unbearably selfish. They thought very little of consequence. Didn’t they care about the potential pain? Did it matter to them that what they caught might. . . hurt?
He was still rather young the first time he caught a knife that had fallen off the kitchen counter. He caught it, unfortunately, by the blade. It sliced cleanly into the chubby flesh of his little boy palms. His mother saw the blood spilling from his hands and screamed, uncurling his fingers from around the knife. She shrieked at him, her voice shrilly with fear. Why had he held onto it like that? Why did he catch it in the first place