Fingers Twitching Uncontrollably Novels & Stories

His hand twitches. “That’s not a request you should be making,” he drawls quietly. “Especially not to me.”

My fingers twitched. I reached for the box.

This is my only goal for now. I was going to wash the dishes but when I reached on the faucet, ice suddenly poured out from my hands. My heart immediately pounded and I heard something ringing inside my head. My vision went blur in a second and my hands are shaking so bad. I literally have no control on it and didn’t even felt it coming out from my palms just like how it’s supposed to be. Mom and Dad rushed to the scene and saw me panting with my hands intertwined together. I can’t see them clearly but I know that they’re worried about me.

I can not stop myself from trembling uncontrollably. My entire body is paralysed with panic as I tremble frantically all over. My hands continue to shake incessantly, regardless of how much I wish for them to stop. They simply will not. My fingers round the huge butcher knife in my hand with increasing vigour. I have never grasped anything more tenaciously in my life than this object. I have the distinct impression that I am being possessed. I am compelled to grasp this knife, as my life is at stake.

I clench my teeth as white flashes flash in my vision. “MAKE IT STOP!” I scream as I rip the door open and fall out on to the road. I scream before it turns to a howl. I convulse on the floor. Fighting whatever is happening to me. Rolling to my knees, I pant as my claws slip out and I growl loudly, fighting to gain control of myself. When I’m hit with flashing images and I scream out in pain, clutching my head as my claws rake down my face.

To the point where my body cannot control itself and shakes vigorously in terror. My throat feels heavy and my chest feels clamped up. It's almost as if I can barely breathe. I let my other hand fold over my palm, with the aim to stop it from quivering as violently as it already is but that only worsens my cause. Now, my entire being feels like it is on fire. I let out an exhale, running my hands through my hair while trying to take control of my breathing. I don't even know if this is working but I keep going regardless.

"Mr. Taylor is feeling unwell all of a sudden. Please follow me to the meeting room now." … "Winston! What's the matter with you? Winston!" Dominic, who sat closest to Winston, screamed at the top of his lungs, successfully attracting everyone's attention to Winston's swaying body. Winston was steadying his shaky legs with both hands at the moment. He buried his head as his eyes were buzzing. His heart was pounding abnormally fast. He didn't dare to lift his head. He could clearly sense that the muscles on his face were twitching uncontrollably. He was like a man suffering from Parkinson's disease.

JEREMY My foot won't stop bouncing under the table. I've tried pressing both feet flat against the floor, but the second I manage it, one of them starts up again. My hands are shoved deep into my jacket pockets, my fingers curled so tightly that my nails are digging into my palms. I keep chewing on the inside of my bottom lip until it stings. Stop it. You're going to look crazy. I glance around the café again. Every time someone laughs too loudly or a chair scrapes against the floor, my shoulders twitch. I hate how jumpy I still am. I thought I was getting better.

Letting on foot down on the ground as I play with the pen in my hand. Behind the camera, the crew nodded, silently filming the little gestures I always forgot about the way I twirled a pen between my fingers, the sigh that escaped before I caught it, the subtle tapping of my foot. It wasn’t nervous ticks, it was just something I did quite often. It helped me focus to other people it looked like I was nervous. My therapist thinks its a nervous tick I do subconsciously. Which is bull if you ask me. I’ve done it since I was a child. As my manager went over the week’s schedule, my phone buzzed quietly at the corner of the desk. I glanced down.

My thighs press together involuntarily, seeking friction, relief, something. Shawn's knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "Your scent just spiked," he says quietly. Mortification burns through me, hot and shameful. "I can't control it." "I know." His jaw works. "But you need to get it under control before we arrive." "How?" Frustration sharpens my voice into something jagged. "It's not a switch I can just flip—"