Hands. Can create things of most wonderous beauty. Yet have the power to orchestrate moments of pure terror. Conducts the world in a well-timed, marked, symphony. Gifting people with precious fleeting moments. Leaping forward once a year eagerly; before tiptoeing back looking for something lost.

You were the one thing in the office that the employees loved and hated in equal measure. Hung in the pride of place, you watch over the hive of activity. Nimble fingers frantically type, printers spewing out continuous waves of papers, doors slam, numbed minds aimlessly drift around the space seeking the source of caffeine. Once even the backup generator handed in its notice in a spectacular explosion, that sent panic to rip apart the organised calm chaos. You might have flinched, but you never fled out of the emergency door, gallantly monitoring the emergency workers who buzzed around in robotic reflective gear.

Now you sensed a shift. A change was coming. Were they prepared for what was to come? Anxiously, you scratched your face before feeling one hand to violently tremble. Theoretically, you were dead. For a whole afternoon you sat paralysed unable to keep the workers informed or on time. Only when the lights flicked off did you begin to wonder what would have happened if they did not have digital time. At some point the weathered round wrinkly face framed by bristling frost stuck his face into yours peering deep into your soul. Carefully, giant paws gripped your sides and lifted you down. Turning you over slowly, he removed the drained battery, you felt the replacement click into place. Then with a ticklish turn the caretaker righted your hands, nodding satisfied he returned you to the nail.

Relieved to have order restored, you sighed sleepily as the hours where darkness reigned dragged on. When an earth-shaking bang shook the windows, rattled the mice, and jostled you sharply. Gazing out over the open space, where electronics snoozed, you searched for the source of the sound. Nothing. Not even a whisper, nor flap of the blinds. Fully alert you waited. Beyond the soft beige shield streetlights glowed a gentle shade of burnished whisky. Keeping a straight face you listened. Listened. Listened.

There was something… or someone here. You sensed their presence. Yet they eluded your sharp gaze. Wordlessly, you begged for a reveal knowing you couldn’t stand the fizzing static of the unknown. A distant rumble of an elephantine stampede made itself known, growing closer… closer… closer. Clattering footfalls muffled by the thin worn carpet. Stifled the scream of the stairwell fought to be heard, a desperate cry for help. Help from whom? There was no one here.

Apprehensively, you held your breath, spinning your lithe hands in an unbreakable cycle. Chewing away the seconds and minutes. The commotion growing closer and closer. Drawing in, like the nights that harbour murmured secrets.

The door springs back alarmed at what confronted the wooden and glass panel. You assumed it must be terrible if the unwavering defiance of the door. Quieting your anxious tick you stared at the unfolding drama. Unable to hear you were plunged into a silent movie.

A tall man with a beer barrel stomach, wobbling jowels and flat feet backed away from the seething volcanic energy. Such molten destruction was bottled up inside a slim ashen haired woman. She was pint sized in comparison to her prey. It reminded you of a courageous lioness tackling a wildebeest for her pride to feast upon. Except there was no backup, no willing lionesses to even the fight.

Her mouth moved rapidly, rattling out mysterious words, arms rigidly directing invisible traffic. Directing the spoken language towards swollen square ears. Shifting your point of observation you watched the fear drifting out of the shrunken hulk. Minute beads of clouded crystal formed on the back of his neck.

Without warning he plummeted to the office floor. Crimson flies buzzed and swirled in the disturbed air. Some landed heavy and sticky on your face. Through stained eyes you saw the victor sway out of doorway. Twirling a smokey black pistol from their hands. You decided that they weren't not deserving of being referred to correctly.

Below you in a sea of scarlet anger and flushed ruby shame, the man remained still. One arm caught under his weight. Legs crossed unnaturally. The back of his once crisp shirt now decorated with a childishly drawn splotch of spilt paint. A clue left for the police.

Your hands wretchedly tried to swipe away the incriminating evidence. Failing with each pass. Forever scarred by the disturbing events. At last in dizzy exhaustion your hands fell still. Becoming another face on the wall.

With a final click of delicate cogs that seemed to rap out in trembling stacatto, "I saw the whole thing...and I cannot tell anyone!"