It's a beautiful morning. The sun is shining, the birds are singing... and you have a headache worse than any you've ever experienced. The second you get up, you close your window to try and mute that painful chirping and shut the curtains to block out the bright glare of that accursed star. Your head makes it feel as though you didn't get a wink of sleep last night, and the rest of your body makes it feel as though you'd been running the streets for the past several hours. You do vaguely remember a very odd dream that explains all of it, but the dream still fails to explain the various failures of the laws of physics within it. Strange and terrified men, evil latex werewolves, weird multicolored puddles... all rubbish, rubbish, rubbish.
Or so you think, until you notice the pair of shiny black gloves sitting on your night table. They definitely aren't yours, and no one you know would get you something that... weird, much less actually sneak into your room while you were asleep, so there's no real explanation as to how the heck they got there. No explanation, that is, unless the dream wasn't a dream... but that makes no sense. Still, you decide to approach the apparel with a bit of caution, calmly walking over to them and then reaching down for one of them, pinching one of its digits with your fingers to lift it up for closer inspection. It looks ordinary enough, despite its featureless surface. Nonetheless, you find them unsettling after the nightmare you'd had, and decide that the best course of action would be to get rid of them. You grab the other glove and hold them both in your left hand for a moment while you ponder what to do. Throwing them in the trash is probably an option, but then, they might come to life and strangle you or something. Yeah, not exactly the most likely scenario, but you never know. Maybe you could bring them to the dump or burn them or something? But then, how would you transport them without leaving them out of your-
YEOWCH!
You reflexively drop both gloves from your hand as you feel something scratch your skin, and as they drop to the floor you can see some tiny, sharp white claws on their tips. Funny, you didn't notice those before... but really, at the moment it doesn't matter. That cut's starting to sting a bit, so you turn your attention to trying to mend it. Well, that's your intention, but the second you set eyes on it you can't help but gawk slack-jawed in awe at just what's happening: dripping from the surprisingly deep cut that the gloves have given you is not the red blood that you'd expect, but rather a thick black fluid, slowly pouring down your palm and then your fingers before finally dripping from their tips. As was the case with most everything in your dream, this situation makes no sense. Maybe you're dreaming again? But then, you definitely felt the cut. You look at it again, the pain already having faded from it but the liquid still pouring out. Or maybe it's not pouring from the cut? Trying to investigate, you prod at it with your other hand's index finger, but feel only a smooth surface underneath and the thick liquid that continues to pour from an unseen source.
But that's enough freaking out for now. Natural or not, you need to patch that cut up before you lose enough of whatever the hell is leaking from it to actually die. You rush to your bathroom, grabbing your first-aid kit and pulling out a roll of gauze, then try to hold the gauze with your left hand while unraveling it with the right... only to find that you can't. There's nothing wrong with the gauze, of course, but rather with your hand - you can't seem to grasp with it. A momentary panic shoots through your mind as you think that maybe you're already lost too much bloo- er, whatever that stuff is, but looking at your hand completely relieves you of that panic by replacing it with a far more long-term sort of panic. It seems that, in the scant few seconds that you'd spent rushing for that first-aid kit, the black liquid gushing from your palm had managed to encase your left hand entirely in a sort of latex cat's paw, sharp white claws extending from each "finger". You can still move the digits, but lack the dexterity (and the thumb) required to actually do much with it. Recalling that you'd been dipping the index finger on your other hand in it, you inspect that, only to find that it's been tipped with a bit of the black latex itself, another claw pointing from its end. Though you'd certainly love to freak out for hours about the fact that you're gushing some mutagenic blood that's slowly turning you into a latex cat, you decide that the best course of action would be to actually try and stop the flow of that blood, so you grab the end of the gauze with your mouth and carefully wrap it around your hand, avoiding further contact with the liquid as you do. Once you've finally wrapped it up and seem to have stopped the "bleeding", you slice off the gauze with the claw on your right hand (at least it's good for something) and then finish up and pack away the kit.
With your hand (or rather, paw) fixed up, you carefully bring yourself to your feet, doing your best to avoid scratching yourself in the fear that doing so might have the same results as the scratch from those gloves did, you try to calm yourself down, clear your mind, and think about what would be the best thing to do next.